


Saviour

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Lucius Malfoy, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lucius Malfoy Bashing, Lucius Malfoy Being an Asshole, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27846042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: In an effort to get closer to the witch he had been half in-love with for the entirety of Hogwarts, Draco ends up becoming fast friends with a certain Muggleborn witch. When the Dark Lord tasks him with a nearly impossible assassination, her brave and courageous Griffyndor side comes out. At the end of the war, he finds himself constantly being saved by the witch, and when the opportunity to show her his gratitude appears, he jumps on it. An angsty story showing the young couple battling a tumultuous history, abuse and assault, but come out on the other side, happy and in love.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley - Relationship
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29
Collections: 2020 Dramione 50k Classic





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me but are the property of J.K.R. and Warner Bros. No copyright infringement is intended. Thank you to my alpha and/or beta for their time and help.

Every day for an entire week, Granger had approached the long table in the library where he sat and joined him at the other end, giving him a small smile before opening her own books to dive into her own studies. 

By the next week, Draco decided he should probably say something to her. Maybe they could move beyond the bounds of slow and shy glances to something resembling a cordial relationship. Maybe she could forgive him for all the things he had said to her as a brainwashed child. Maybe he could confess to her that he had been half in love with her for his entire life after age eleven and hoped one day he could take her on a proper date to show her that he was a good man despite everything. 

He cleared his throat, “Is that the assignment for Ancient Runes that you are working on, Granger?” 

She startled, eyes widening as she looked up at him, quill twisting between her fingers, “Uh—uh yeah it is. Why?” 

Her cheeks turned a shade of red, that he found adorable and he took a deep breath, gathering his courage before speaking again. “Well I am working on that as well, and I just wondered if maybe you could look it over for me? Make sure that everything makes sense?” 

She swallowed loudly before turning around and looking over her shoulder before looking back at him with a raised brow. “You—you want me?  _ Me... _ to look at your Ancient Runes assignment?” 

Draco chuckled, trying to hide the nervous tremor in his voice. “I’d very much like to move on from all of this… war stuff, and we both know that outside of Nott, you and I are the smartest in our year. We should just team up and help each other.” He gave a noncommittal shrug and hoped she wouldn’t hex him for his suggestion. 

“Okay?” 

“Look, Granger. You and I have been the only ones in the library consistently for the past week, and I am sure it has been a lot longer since your friends have been in here. I’m just saying that we should help each other out,” he waved a hand between them, leaning forward slightly where he sat opposite of her, “You know… become study partners. It might make our N.E.W.T.s that much easier.” 

Her brow arched again, “Okay?” 

For once in her life, she was impossible to read, and Merlin knew he’d spent enough time staring at her over the past five years. “So, are you in?” 

“I guess…” Her eyes flicked between the parchment in front of her and him, the feather of her quill brushing through the air with each nervous fidget of her hands. “I mean you kind of made me an offer I can’t refuse.” 

“Good, now scoot closer. If I keep shouting at you from the other end of the table, Madam Pince will have both of our heads.” Draco moved his pile of books to the side, clearing a space for her to sit near him. 

He watched with hopeful eyes as she gathered her things quietly, arranging her books in a tidy stack before shifting them down the table with a quietly uttered spell. When she sat down in the seat across the table from him, she leaned forward and studied him closely as if he were a problem she might need to solve. 

He laughed once he realized exactly why she was staring at him the way she was. “I promise it's actually me Granger. You punched me in the nose third year, over a bloody bird.” 

She seemed to relax after his admission, sinking back into her chair and pressing her fingertips to the parchment she had been working on for the past half-hour. “Fine, my assignment is almost done. I’d say a few more inches of parchment and I will be ready to read yours, what about you?” 

Draco smiled at how easy it was for her to bond with him over schoolwork. 

“That should be fine.” 

In the following weeks, Draco and Hermione formed a tentative friendship that moved towards a close friendship when he wasn’t paying attention. There were smiles between classes and laughter in the library after they inevitably finished whatever assignment they had been working on. He would walk her back to Gryffindor Tower after leaving the library just before curfew and linger for a moment as she passed through the portrait hole.

He couldn’t deny that when she laughed, his heart pounded in his chest, and when she accidentally brushed up against him when they walked side by side, the butterflies in his stomach rioted. 

He was falling for the witch, even though she was everything he was supposed to hate, everything he had been taught was inferior and insignificant.

Yet, she was  _ none _ of those things. 

It was exhausting, pretending that he supported the Dark Lord and all of the rhetoric his fanatics preached. Coming to Hogwarts had been an eye-opening experience and his young mind was shaped not by his father, whom he’d previously admired and tried to emulate, but by watching those around him and paying attention to the atrocities being committed by the side his father supported. 

How was it possible for Muggleborns to steal magic? What did it matter if society was pure? He’d yet to be given an answer to either question that was anything more than conjecture laced conspiracy. It made him sick to think that witches like Hermione ranked highly on the Dark Lord’s hit list when it came to Muggleborns. 

He couldn’t let anything happen to her—he  _ wouldn’t _ let anything happen to her. 

* * *

**_May 14, 1997_ **

The official word from the Dark Lord and his father came over a rare weekend away from school and Draco was struggling to hold himself together upon his return to Hogwarts with the knowledge that he was faced with an impossible task—kill Dumbledore.

He sat at the table in the library gripping the edge tightly as the tears of anger and disappointment threatened to spill over the rims of his reddened eyes. 

Hermione reached out a tentative hand and placed it on his arm, concern marring her normally cheerful features. “Malfoy? Are you okay?” 

“Not really, no,” he bristled, pushing his hand through his hair before allowing it to grip the table once more. It felt like a lifeline and he desperately needed to hold onto something to keep his composure. 

“Do you want to do this another night? We don’t have to meet up every night... I understand you have other things going on.” Her lips wore a smile but each syllable was laced with poorly concealed disappointment.

His eyes lifted to meet hers. “Can I trust you, Granger?” 

She looked at him with a furrowed brow, “Of course you can. What’s going on, Draco?” 

The use of his name made funny things happen to his insides, he scanned the room nervously, eyes landing on several groups of students nearby. “Not here. Come on, I know a place with more privacy.” Draco shoved his books into his bag and lifted onto his shoulder before he quickly beelined for the exit.

Hermione struggled to keep up with him, her arms full of books she frantically shoved into her own bag as her feet took three steps for each of his. 

Draco pulled her by the arm into the Room of Requirement once they made it to the seventh floor and he called forth the memory of his bedroom at the Manor. It was a perfect replication from the soft cream duvet to the walls subtly dotted with a map of the night sky, his own constellation poised directly over his bed.

Draco dropped his book bag to the floor and gestured for Hermione to sit in the chairs adjacent to the lit fireplace. She dropped down into one of them, leaving her bag on the floor as he paced back and forth, contemplating a way to tell her something— _ anything _ without scaring her off.

He paused and stood before her, his grey-eyed gaze levelled upon her with all of the gravity he could muster at this moment in time. “I need you to promise me something, Granger. Whatever I say cannot leave this room. You cannot tell anyone. Not Potter, not Weasley. I need you to promise.” 

Hermione nodded, her voice quiet as she uttered that she would keep his secret safe. 

He struggled to know where to begin and took a deep breath, releasing it on a long exhale.“I don’t know what to do. I am lost and I need… I need a friend.” 

Hermione was out of the chair and on her feet quickly. He must have looked significantly more worse for wear than he thought because she quickly enveloped him in a lingering hug. “I  _ am _ your friend Malfoy; we established this a while ago.” 

He savoured the way she felt in his arms, her smaller frame pressed against him and the scent of her shampoo filling his senses before he reluctantly pulled away. His gaze met hers and he stopped himself from leaning forward and pulling her back into his arms. “I think you need to sit down… it’s… not… good news.” 

Hermione took a deep breath and stepped back out of the circle of his arms to sit on the edge of the seat near the window. 

“Not a word to anyone about this.” 

When she nodded, Draco took a couple of steadying breaths before lifting the sleeve on his left arm just enough to expose the unmistakable curve of the bottom of his Dark Mark. “It’s about this.” 

He knew what the Dark Mark meant to someone like her and when her eyes fell upon it, Hermione gasped, placing a hand over her mouth, and looking up at him nervously. He could feel the energy between them change as if she was suddenly afraid of what he would do to her. 

He hated it. 

“Hear me out… just… give me a chance to explain.” 

He could see the way her chest heaved with each breath, the way her hands gripped the edges of the chair, and the fear in her eyes. 

Draco ran his hands through his hair and tugged at his tie, loosening the knot until he didn’t feel like he was about to suffocate under the weight of everything. “My father forced me to get this,” he gestured to his forearm, “I was held at wandpoint and told that if I didn’t get it, I would be forced to watch as my mother was tortured and killed before I myself was tortured and killed.” 

Hermione gasped softly, but remained silent, as he continued.

He closed his eyes, pressing the pads of his fingers against the mark on his skin through the fabric of his jumper. “It was this or watching him torture my mother...again.” 

Tears were forming in Hermione’s eyes when Draco opened his and he wanted to reach out and comfort her—to tell her it would be okay, even though he knew his tale only grew worse from there. “From the beginning,  _ they _ have been sending me to complete tasks— each one more dark and twisted than the last.” Images played behind his eyes unbidden of each task forced upon him. Torturing a muggle. Poisoning bottles of wine at a supermarket. Practising dark hexes on innocents. It made his stomach turn. “I got my next assignment, and I—I don’t think I can do it, Hermione. But if I fail, at best I’ll be tortured—the  _ Cruciatus  _ most likely, but it’s more probable I’ll be killed outright… and I’m not certain it would be a painless Killing Curse. 

When he finally summoned the courage to look at Hermione, she was curled up in the chair, knees tucked against her chest and arms curled around them. She looked so small, eyes sparkling with betrayal and unshed tears.

Draco knelt next to the chair and wanted to scream when she shrank back against the brocade covered cushions. “What’s going through your mind, Granger?” 

She let out a deep breath and her voice cracked when the words finally tumbled quietly over her lips. “You’re a Death Eater? All this time that we have been friends and...and you stand for a cause that _ kills _ people like me?” 

Draco quickly swallowed the emotion that bubbled up in his throat. “I don’t believe in anything that they stand for, Herm—Granger. I don’t want to be a part of this, but my mother—my father will hurt her if I don’t do this.” 

Hermione cleared her throat, body relaxing slightly as she steeled her shaky breath, “What’s the mission?”

Draco appreciated that she didn’t dwell on the knowledge that he had become a Death Eater. No matter the circumstances behind it, he’d been branded as such and he knew he would always be seen as such. It was a terrible weight upon his shoulders that he was certain he might carry for the rest of his life—no matter how long that might be. 

He nervously looked to the ground, picking at a tuft of carpet. “I have to kill the Headmaster.” 

“You’re… you… you what?”

Draco winced. “Please don’t make me say it again.” 

“And… and if you don’t?” she said, tugging at the hem of her skirt with her fingers.

“Someone will get hurt, maybe die. If not me… my-my mother.” 

She sat up in the chair, back straightening and he could see the hope in her eyes born of her innate bravery and courage, something he lacked. “Malfoy, you should come to the Order. We can help—”

He held up his hand. “Not an option, Granger. Not until I can get my mother out.” 

She nodded in apparent understanding and said possibly the last thing he ever expected. “What can I do to help?” 

When he’d made the decision to approach her, it was because he needed to tell someone. He needed someone to know that if, or when it came out, that he’d been tasked with what was possibly the most impossible assassination in recent history, that he hadn’t wanted to do it, that he’d been against it from the start. He’d never expected her to want to help. “Uh—you want to help me?” 

The corners of her lips turned up in a small smile and she reached out, resting a hand on his shoulder, “Isn’t that what friends are for?” 

He blinked up at her, his mouth slightly ajar. “Forgive my shock, but of all the things I thought you would say, Granger, that was not one of them.” 

He could almost see her mind whirring in the way her eyes lit up. She nearly jumped out of the chair and began to pace, gesticulating emphatically as she moved over the rug in front of the hearth. “What if we figure out a way to keep you on his side yet make you an informant of sorts? It can be anonymous. I won’t mention anything to anyone. Then, we can help you without making it obvious.” She paused, glancing down at him thoughtfully, “Oh dear, that’s rather convoluted, isn’t it?” 

He pressed up to his feet, brushing his hands on his trousers before sitting on the arm of the chair and rubbing his hand over his mouth and down his chin, “I mean that could work. But what would Potter say if he knew you were meeting me?” 

She waved him off. “Don’t worry about Harry. I’ll think of something, but we should only meet here.” 

“Why here?” 

“Because,” Hermione sighed, “Harry has this charmed map that shows the location of every person in Hogwarts, and if you and I are in the library it’s one thing, but to be together all the time in other places? He’s going to think something is up.” 

In any other lifetime, he would love to be together with her in other places around the castle, but for her own safety, even if she consented, it was an impossibility now. But perhaps the most alarming thing was that “Potter has a charmed map?” 

She cocked a brow and crossed her arms. “You’re a Death Eater?” 

He held up his hands and a short, nervous laugh left his lips. “I see your point. Deal Granger.” He held out his hand to cement their agreement, his body thrumming with the feel of her smaller hand encased within his own. “But I’m completely serious about how important it is that I remain anonymous. I can’t afford to be outed.”

“I know, Malfoy. I promise.” 

* * *

**_Nearly midnight on June 30, 1997_ **

The moment she came into view in their meeting spot, behind the same rock formation where she had punched him three years prior, he lost his ability to hold back tears. 

Was it because seeing her caused a feeling of relief and safety to wash over him or because he survived? Seeing her meant she hadn’t turned her back on him— _ yet. _

“Did you do it?” 

He hid his face behind his hands and shook his head, before falling to the ground beside her, his knees cracking against the hard ground. “I couldn’t. Snape had to.”

“But the mission is complete?” she pressed. 

He looked at up her, his vision blurred by unshed tears. “Yes, Hermione. But my deranged aunt is going to tell Vo—the Dark Lord that I am a bloody  _ coward _ and I’ll be killed later.” 

His head fell into his hands and the tears fell, sliding over his cheeks and dripping on to the damp earth below. Blood rushed through his ears, all but certain that the moment he left the protected grounds of Hogwarts that his life hung in the balance. He felt a tentative pair of arms wrap around him, a hand stroking his back as stammered words, broken by the sounds of his sobs were forced over his tongue. 

“I—I…I couldn’t look the old bastard in the face and do it. Snape told me that he would if I couldn’t. I couldn’t Hermione, even though I knew I could die, I just couldn’t do it.” 

Hermione shushed him, pulled his face to her chest and caressed the hair on the back of his head. “It’s because you are better than that. You are better than this unfortunate fate your horrible father has destined for you. You—” She reached down and he ripped up his sleeve on his left arm, revealing the Dark Mark slithering on his skin, “You—are better than this, Draco.”

He shook his head, ripping his arm out of her grip and pulling back from her, stumbling back into the grass. 

Anger flashed through his body, making his skin prickle and his body grow warm at the thought of his father rotting in jail, while he was forced to do terrible things to simply prove himself worthy of something he didn’t even believe in. 

He stood up, closing the distance between them once more and shoving the sleeve of his shirt up his arm with a force that caused the button from the cuff to pop. “Or am I Hermione? This is what I am destined for. I am a cold-blooded snake-in-the-grass, just like my father. I promised myself I would never turn into him, and look at me, I practically  _ am  _ him.”

He threw his head back, disappointment washing over him. “Goodness knows I’m no better than him. The things I’ve seen, the things I’ve done.” 

Hermione sighed, forcing herself once more into his space, her hands clapping down over his biceps. “Draco, you have to snap out of it! You have to get through this in order to come out on the other side. Do you understand me? We—we will beat this, beat him. Then you can be free, Draco. We will get through this.” 

Her hands slid over his arms, one to grasp his right hand tightly while she pulled the sleeve back down to cover the mark on his other arm.

He felt the way his skin warmed under her touch. He looked down into her eyes and they were full of concern for him. If only he could tug her against him and keep her close, to feel the sense of safety and belonging wash over him as he kissed her, keeping the concern in her eyes at bay. 

He tried to sneer, tried to twist his face into anything other than the haunted look glazing his eyes, but his expression held no mirth. “What do you and the rest of the Golden Trio have planned, since you are so sure that everyone will make it out on the other side of this  _ bloody _ war?” 

“Harry and I have a plan, not sure if Ron will go along with it, but you shouldn’t worry about it.” She bit her bottom lip and pulled away, releasing his hand. 

“Will you be in contact?” 

She tipped her head to the side, “You know I can’t tell you the details, Draco. If Voldemort found out that you knew what we were doing he would torture and kill the lot of us. Just remember that you are better than this, and you  _ will  _ get through it. Once this war is over, you can be whatever you want to be.” 

He looked at her, holding her gaze steady as his hands flexed at his side. “You know, no matter how many times you say it, it doesn’t mean it will come true. I thought you were supposed to be the bloody Brightest Witch of the Age?” Despite his sombre expression, his tone lilted and upon seeing her smile, the corners of his mouth curved upward for what seemed to be the first time in months.

“Good to know my favourite foul-mouthed git is still behind this blubbering baby I just saw.” He squinted one eye at her, she laughed out loud. “I’m only joking.” 

He smiled for a minute more but then the joy fled from his face. “Who knows what Voldemort will want me to do next. I don’t think I can handle much more, Hermione, especially knowing that I won’t have an understanding friend anywhere near me or within owl’s reach to talk to. I will be alone until this comes to a head and it kills me.” 

She pursed her lips and he watched her smile turn to a frown. “Draco, find the courage within you to do what will keep you alive. Instead of what’s right, you must do what is necessary to keep you alive. That is how you will get to the other side of this.”

He heard the cackle of Bellatrix in the distance, knowing he was supposed to be meeting the others in the clearing in the Forbidden Forest. 

“Even if it’s horrible?” 

She nodded. 

“I’ll do my best.” 

Draco found himself wrapped tightly in her embrace once more, and he pulled his arms around her, revelling in the softness of her hair against his face and the warmth that flushed through him from the simple gesture. She pulled away first and he reluctantly released her, reaching up to place the palms of her hands on his cheeks. 

“Stay safe. I’ll write when I can.” 

“Keep yourself safe, Hermione. I mean it. I can’t cope if I lose you.” 

He watched as she backed away and gave him a small smile, the love he felt for her the only thing keeping him afloat in an endless sea of misery knowing what was to come. “You are stronger than you think, Draco.” 

She disappeared into the darkness of the castle and he kicked at the grass, wishing he would have taken what might have been his last chance to kiss her.

* * *

**_Late March 1998_ **

Draco found the constant stream of Death Eaters coming and going in his home tiresome and he took every opportunity to remind his mother of his displeasure. Unfortunately, he was always met with the same answer, “Oh Draco, I know my dear. But this will all be over soon, hopefully.” The last word always sounded more as a question than a statement, but he still hoped she was right. 

It had been months since he had heard from Hermione and he paced his room, anger flooding through him when he realized the twentieth letter he’d sent to her had been returned unread. 

He knew she was on the run and would have limited availability to respond, but he didn’t think it would have been quite this bad. Each passing day without word from her only made him grow more worried for her safety, but he surely would have heard the supposed joyous news that she had been captured or killed. He attended the required meetings but blocked out as much as he possibly could so his fragile control over his emotions didn’t shatter. 

He missed her, longing for the times when he could send her a note in class and meet up with her at night, relaying how his day had gone, and getting reassurance that he wasn’t a terrible person. He missed the quiet nights in the library where he would simply watch her as they studied near one another, longing to reach out and kiss her lips. 

His heart hurt not knowing where she was or if she was okay. 

The alarm indicating someone was at the front gate sounded and Draco winced as Bellatrix shrieked that she would get it. He looked out over his balcony to the mist-covered grounds below, the thunderheads above casting shadows over the normally vibrant lawn. 

His aunt’s voice sounded from outside of his room and the sound of it made bile bubble in the back of his throat knowing that whatever Bellatrix had in store for him was bound to haunt his dreams tonight. “Draco darling, please come to the drawing-room. I have a little task for you, sweet nephew.” 

He straightened his robes, wrapping his memories tightly within the safety of his Occlumency shields as he tried to keep the last words of wisdom Hermione had given him before they parted in the forefront of his mind:  _ You are stronger than you think, Draco. _

Bellatrix approached him, doing her best impression of a doting and loving aunt, “Come now, Draco. Come see what we have for you.” 

When he saw Hermione, his heart skipped a beat. It had almost been a year since he had seen her, months since he’d received any letters. The sight of her turned his stomach, her face was clean but he could tell her hair hadn’t been properly washed in days, if not weeks, and she was skinny to the point of appearing ill, her clothes hanging from her already petite frame. He was thankful at the moment for the shields in his mind because, without them, he would not have been able to hold himself together. 

The last he had heard they were going on the run, and he knew she would be largely untraceable, completing some half-finished mission Dumbledore had relayed to Potter. He envisioned them travelling between different safe houses, some safe haven where she was well fed and taken care of. Not once did he think the next time he saw her she would look as though she were on Death’s doorstep. 

Bellatrix held up a man by the hair on the back of his head who looked as if he had been stung by an entire beehive. His eyes were swollen shut, but there was no mistaking him—Potter. Bellatrix pleaded with Draco to identify him. 

“Can you identify this as Harry Potter, Draco? We want to be sure that there are no mistakes, you know how the Dark Lord can be if someone has not been thorough.” 

He swallowed and stared into Potter’s green eyes, trying to think of something—anything to get them out of this mess. “I can’t be sure.” 

Draco’s father joined him as he stood before Potter, the ornate robes he wore did little to hide Lucius Malfoy’s sickly pallor. Draco’s skin erupted in gooseflesh as he prepared himself to the nearly inevitable string of curses to dance across his skin if he failed. “If you do this son, the Dark Lord would be most pleased with us, you do understand don’t you, Draco?”

Narcissa quickly tugged Lucius to the side, grasping his hand, knowing that even the simplest touch from Lucius would cause Draco’s emotions to spiral out of control.

Memories of the abuse he’d suffered at his father’s hands flooded his mind, seeping out from the shields he had so desperately buried them behind. Cowering in the corner as his father raised his fist or wand. His head in his hands as a whip cracked over his back. His throat raw from screaming as the  _ Cruciatus _ was unleashed over his body. They all played behind his eyes as he fought for control, drawing a deep breath and turning his focus on what he could do to get Potter, Weasley, and  _ Hermione _ out of the manor before someone was killed. 

Bellatrix pulled Draco closer, pushing him to a kneel so he could look directly into Potter’s eyes. Harry looked back, silently pleading for him to not say anything. 

Bellatrix demanded that Hermione’s wand be checked for the last spell she cast. Draco’s eyes darted to where Hermione knelt, knowing that once Bellatrix discovered she cast the stinging hex, the three of them would be presented to the Dark Lord and likely killed. 

When Bellatrix saw the sword of Godric Gryffindor in the hand of one of the Snatchers, she threw Harry and Ron towards the ever-slimey Peter Pettigrew, bellowing at him to remove them from her sight. 

His aunt raged, her sharp voice echoing off of the walls as she shouted about the sword, and Draco’s stomach turned itself over when he realized that all of his aunt’s rage was directed toward Hermione. 

In the blink of an eye, Bellatrix had her pinned to the floor, the cursed blade she kept tucked into her skirts appearing in her hand before she began, carving something into Hermione’s skin. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the agonized scream and pleas from the witch he loved, fighting to keep even the barest of shields in place. Every possible avenue to rescue her from his aunt that he could come up with would have immediately resulted in Hermione’s death. 

_ “Crucio!”  _ his aunt shouted and his body tensed, the mere word lit his own body on fire as he remembered the feeling of the force of the curse at his aunt’s hand. Distantly, he heard Hermione sob and through glazed eyes, he watched her body go limp. 

It didn’t matter if he died. It only mattered that she survived and he clenched his wand in his hand tightly, with intent to raise it and end his aunt’s life himself before she had the chance to end Hermione’s. It was only his mother’s hand on his that stayed him, and Hermione’s words ringing in his ears, reminding him to do whatever he needed to do to survive. Draco turned, watching as his mother silently held back her own tears as they watched Hermione’s torture on the floor of their favourite drawing-room, unable to stop it. 

Relief flooded him when Dobby appeared and swept Hermione and the others away. He’d never particularly liked the energetic house-elf but he now felt indebted to the small creature for doing what he himself could not do—save the woman he loved. 

That night, Draco warded his room with the strongest silencing charms he knew and sobbed into his pillow. 

He fell asleep with the scent of her blood and the sound of her screams still haunting him. 


	2. Chapter 2

**_May 2, 1998_ **

There was no mistaking it. 

The same man who saved him from fiery death in the Room of Requirement as the Fiendfyre spell cast by Goyle engulfed the room, was being carried, lifeless, by Hagrid. 

It was Potter. 

Emotions rolled through him faster than his Occlumency shields could control. Sadness that Potter had been murdered, disappointment that the Dark Lord won, anger over what his life would—had become. But the most profound emotion Draco felt was concern—concern that Hermione, the most important witch in his life, second only to his Mother, would be kidnapped and used for whatever purpose the Dark Lord saw fit. 

Tears fell from Draco’s eyes to splash against the dusty pavement as he remembered how heart-wrenching it had been to watch Hermione be tortured on the floor of his home. He knew whatever she experienced paled in comparison to his own feelings, and despair twisted in his stomach knowing what was to come would be infinitely worse. 

Before melancholy rendered him immobile, Potter sprung forward and triumphed over the Dark Lord as the battle ignited around him once more. 

Watching the Dark Lord fall lifeless to the ground, just another deceased body among the many who lay slain over grounds of Hogwarts, Draco found himself overwhelmed. His knees snapped against the damp ground below him and tears slid down his face as the realization that he would never have to return to the life of abuse that he suffered at the hands of his father. He thanked the gods for whatever opportunity he was given and vowed to rejoice, regain his life and truly come out on the other side as he had hoped, and as Hermione had promised.

The permanent pressure in his chest began to lift and the concern he had felt for Hermione’s fate dissipated, knowing that she would be safer in a world where Voldemort lay cold in the ground. 

He scanned the crowd looking for Hermione, and when his eyes finally caught sight of her, jealousy festered in his chest like an open wound. He watched as she threw her arms around Weasley, their mouths locked together in a passion that he’d never experienced, looking as though this kiss might be their last. His throat bobbed as he swallowed and drew a deep breath before he tamped down the dangerous feeling raging in his chest until it quieted to a gentle ember, affirming to himself that if she was happy, he would be happy for her. 

Before his father could find him, Draco disapparated and made his way to the Ministry of Magic, quickly taking the elevator to the lobby of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The clerk behind the desk looked at him with concern and Draco realized he must appear battle-worn and weary, but there were more pressing matters to attend to. 

“I need to speak to an Auror, please. Immediately.”

The hesitant clerk nodded and quickly scratched out a message on a sheaf of parchment before tapping it with her wand. It formed a paper aeroplane and sped off behind her, avoiding several other interdepartmental memos flying about before Draco lost it in the chaos above the bullpen. The clerk stood from her chair and motioned toward a row of uncomfortable-looking chairs. “Have a seat, Mr Malfoy, someone will be with you shortly.” 

Draco nodded, taking a seat in the chair furthest from the door. The tick of the clock in the waiting area rang in his ears as he tried to breathe through his apprehension. It felt like hours before someone called his name, though when he glanced up at the clock, it had been mere minutes. 

An older Auror with grey hair and a greying beard appeared in front of him, his tone short and patience obviously thin. “Mr Malfoy? I’m Auror Finnegan. How can we help you today?” 

“I need to make a confession.” Draco’s voice cracked, emotions hovering just at the surface and threatening to overwhelm him.

The Auror surveyed him in disapproval, eyes dragging over his battle-worn appearance. “We typically don’t take the testimony of marked Death Eaters, but we can place you in a holding cell until more arrests are made.” 

His heart constricted in his chest as the words ‘holding cell’ and ‘arrest’ conjured images of a foreboding and icy prison where the Wizarding World’s worst were left to rot. “No! You have to listen to me, please. I didn’t do anything wrong, I need to speak to someone about my innocence, please. My life is in danger! They will kill me if I return home.” 

When the desk clerk gasped, the Auror surrounded the small waiting area with a silencing spell. “Get it together, boy. I will listen, but I offer no guarantees that you will be set free. Don’t know why you expect some kind of special treatment. Let’s go.” 

Draco was jerked up by the collar of his robes and pushed towards the door leading to the interrogation rooms within the DMLE. 

The hallway was narrow and well lit. With a tap of the Auror’s wand, a nondescript door was opened and he was shoved into the cold, white room. Draco surveyed the room and noticed that there were only two chairs, a table between them and a door in this room. His anxiety peaked as he realized that there would be no way out, apart from the singular door and that no one could see if something were to happen to him in this room. He tried to concentrate, to feel the magic in the room but his nerves were so frayed he was unable to discern as to whether or not there were any monitoring spells warding the space.

Before he could lose his courage, Draco dropped into one of the two chairs just as the Auror entered the room behind him. “Listen Malfoy, I’ll take your confession, but given that Mark on your arm, you’re going to be arrested. Nothin’, I can do about that. Now, Kingsley usually does these interrogations but since he’s not here, I am in charge. Start by saying your full name.” 

Arrested. 

Arrested meant Azkaban. Terror clawed at his throat at the thought of being sent to the icy, dilapidated prison to be forgotten. He pressed his hands into the smooth wood of the tabletop and cleared his throat, his eyes following the swirls in the grain as his thumbs tapped together. Still, if he cooperated and went forward with his plan, he might be granted clemency. 

“Draco Lucius Malfoy.” 

The Auror leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. “Date of birth.” 

“Fifth of June, 1980.” 

“What are you seeking today?” the Auror asked, pulling a self-inking quill and small sheaf of parchment from within his robes. 

“Protection and freedom.” 

Auror Finnegan scoffed, “And what makes you think that you are eligible for freedom or protection?” 

Draco drew a breath and released it. “Because I have the memories to prove that my father was an abusive drunk and forced me to take the Dark Mark.” 

The Auror sat up, leaning forward over the table and Draco drew back at the sight of the slight sneer on his face. “Look here Malfoy, I’m no idiot. I know you can’t take the Mark unless you are willing. Cut the shite. Tell me the truth.” Finnegan slammed his palms on the table, rising to his feet and leaning over, his eyes boring into Draco’s. 

Draco’s fingers spread nervously over the table, palms pressing hard into the ancient woodgrain. “I am telling you the truth if you would _bloody_ listen. My father held my mother at wandpoint and threatened us both if I dishonoured the family by refusing the Mark. Tell me how resistant you would be if you were in the same position?” 

Finnegan gripped the edge of the table, his eyes wild in anger—from Draco’s confession or lack thereof, Draco didn’t know, but before he could fire back, Draco continued. 

“I am offering to testify under the influence of Veritaserum and submit my memories as official evidence in the trial. You have to listen to me, my Father, Lucius Malfoy has been a marked Death Eater since the first war. He has beaten and tortured me since I was old enough to remember. 

I am not saying that I am innocent and don’t deserve punishment for the things I was forced to do, but I will give you insider information that no other Death Eater would _dare_ . I was on the inside, I know _everything_.” Draco’s eyes flicked upward from the table and he stared into the dark, wild eyes of the grizzled Auror.

The door to the interrogation room burst open, startling Draco and Auror Finnegan both. A battle-worn Kingsley Shackbolt entered the room, his robes swirling outwards in fury as he stormed over the threshold. “Finnegan—” 

With the way the Auror looked, Draco thought he might very well growl at Shacklebolt but all that came out was a question asked through clenched teeth. “What do you want Shacklebolt, can’t you see I am busy here?” 

“You’re excused, Auror Finnegan. I will be handling this confession myself.” Kingsley waved off the other Auror.

Draco pushed his hand through his hair as the two Aurors argued, their voices rising and booming against the stark walls of the small interrogation room. Shacklebolt insisted the other auror leave while Auror Finnegan bellowed about how it was his case now. He looked almost gleeful like he would be infinitely pleased if he were to send Draco off to Azkaban without trial and the look in his eyes, the prejudice Draco found there was sobering. Hermione couldn’t have been right, could she? He was doomed from the start—death at his father’s hand, the Dark Lord’s hand, or forgotten to die in Azkaban. His mind whirled and Draco built a shield in his mind, cutting off all of his emotions as the conflict escalated until Auror Finnegan drew his wand to which Shacklebolt immediately sent him careening out of the room with a simple swish and flick, the door slamming closed behind him. 

“Mr Malfoy, I apologize for the prejudices likely bestowed upon you by that old codger.” Shacklebolt pulled out the chair across from him, and sat down, placing his wand in clear view of Draco, causing a bit of his own anxiety to lift, though his shields remained firmly in place. 

The older Order Member and Auror smiled congenially, the corners of his lips lifting as he fiddled with a button on his robes, leaning back into the chair with ease. “I just had a rather _enlightening_ conversation with a certain Miss Granger regarding a dear friend who was in danger. May I assume this is you?” 

His shields cracked at the mention of Hermione and he felt the hot stream of a tear fall down his cheek. When he saw the sincerity in Shacklebolt’s eyes, they shattered and his breath caught in his throat, escaping a moment later in a strangled sob. “She—she told you about—about _me_?” 

Kingsley nodded, shifting his seat to settle both feet firmly on the floor, his stance wide and relaxed beneath the table. “She told me that she had a dear friend who happened to fall on the wrong side of the war for whom she was concerned. Miss Granger also stated that once she located him, she wanted to guarantee witness protection until it was deemed safe. She also shared some memories here—” He rummaged through his robes before holding up a clear bag with half a dozen vials in it, the silvery wisps of memories floating in each, “—that proves his innocence. She also said she was willing to testify in court—told me to watch these while she located the man. Is this you, Mr Malfoy?” 

His hands swiped over his face and he nodded emphatically, palms wiping away the tear tracks on his cheeks. Despite all that she had been through, despite his failure at saving her when she was tortured in his home, despite her lack of communication over the past several months, she remained true to her word. He didn’t deserve someone so kind and loyal in his life. 

The bright silvery light of a large lynx filled the room as Kinglsey conjured his Patronus, directing it to find Hermione and whispering, “I have your friend, Hermione. He is safe.”

When the lynx bounded from the room through one of the walls, Kingsley levelled his gaze on Draco and pulled out a small spiral-bound notebook and a muggle biro, setting them both to record Draco’s testimony with a flick of his wand. “Let’s start from the beginning. Tell me about your father.” 

* * *

Several hours later, Draco held a quill in his hand and signed his name to the statement he had given, certifying the truths he had provided. His mind felt a bit fuzzy, the memories required as evidence of his testimony having been removed, each silvery wisp placed in a small vial and tucked away in an evidence box next to Hermione’s.

He set the quill down on the table and handed the packet of papers containing his testimony to Shacklebolt. “Thank you for listening to me, Auror Shacklebolt.” 

Kingsley tucked the papers away in an envelope, sealing them with a spell. “Everyone deserves a fair trial, Draco.” He set the folio aside. “Now, about your witness protection. I agree with Miss Granger that it will be important to tuck you away somewhere safe until the end of the trials. We have a safe house we’d like to place you at for the foreseeable future. It comes stocked with food and clothing, but you’ll be unable to leave, but only, until we apprehend the rest of the Death Eaters.” 

He was wary, it sounded like another form of imprisonment, though a somewhat more comfortable one. “And after they’ve been arrested, I can leave?” 

“The house I’m thinking of is in a remote part of the country and sits on several acres. As long as you remain within the confines of the Fidelius charm, you’ll be safe from harm. We won’t be able to guarantee your safety if you venture beyond the wards. You’ll be given notice of when those posing an immediate threat based on their known affiliations with Voldemort have been apprehended, at which time you may negotiate to stay longer for your own protection or you may leave of your own free will. 

Draco nodded in understanding, “How long?” 

Kingsley’s fingers brushed over his chin in thought, “Likely a few weeks, at least. Most Death Eaters were arrested at Hogwarts, but a few did manage to get away before the anti-apparition wards could be placed.” 

“And… and my mother? She’s done nothing wrong.” A week in Azkaban and his mother would be as good as dead. She was already fragile thanks to her mistreatment at the hands of his father. 

“We will arrest her the same as the others, but once she arrives here to the department, we will get her into the same safe house. We don’t want to make it apparent on scene that she is being treated differently.” 

Relief washed over him. “Thank you for that.” 

Shacklebolt nodded. “If you are ready, I will escort you to the boundary of the safe house wards via apparition and then give you the location to memorize.” 

Draco’s mouth curved into a small smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes, “Yes, sir.” 

Kingsley tucked the folio containing Draco’s confession into the evidence box and sealed it before sending it away with a whispered spell and an intricate wand movement. Draco took his arm once offered and fell the telltale squeeze of apparition as he was whisked away from within the Ministry of Magic. 

They landed at the edge of a forest with dark trees and low-hanging clouds overhead and suddenly exhaustion swept over Draco. His steps faltered and he caught himself, hand scraping against the bark of a tree as Kingsley pulled a scrap of paper from within his robes. 

_The Ministry of Magic Safehouse is at Pinfall Cottage, Devon._

Draco memorized the words on the paper before it disintegrated into dust before his eyes. When he looked up, a small cottage sat aways back in the moor with swaying grasses surrounding it, the only pops of colour in the sea of green were a few sparse wildflowers. A galleon was pressed into his open palm and Kingsley tapped it three times in rapid succession, a message appearing. 

“This is a charmed galleon. All you have to do is point your wand at it and think of what you want to say to me, and it will transfer to the one I have in my pocket,” Kingsley reached into the pocket of his robes and held out an identical one that flashed the message he had just sent via the galleon in Draco’s hand. 

Draco’s fist closed around the galleon and he nodded in understanding. 

“This is to be used in an emergency. There are anti-apparition wards in place here for everyone except for me, so don’t try. If for whatever reason someone appears that shouldn’t have, let me know through this galleon. I’ll be notified immediately and can bring in Aurors to keep you safe.” 

The uneasiness ebbed as the exhaustion he felt following apparition settled into his tired muscles. He needed a bath and about three days of sleep before he would feel remotely like he might be able to function again. “Thank you.” 

“I will send an owl for you to use, so you may write to Hermione if you wish. She demanded that I have that set up for her.” Kingsley let out a small smile after his admission to which a real, unbridled smile appeared on Draco’s face. He knew just how stubborn she could be when she got an idea into her head and he was once again thankful for her friendship. 

Draco tucked the galleon away safely into the pocket of his trousers as Kingsley’s hand settled on his shoulder. The older wizard leaned forward slightly, his tired eyes were soft around the edges. “She cares for you Draco. She is a great friend to have on your side.” 

Convincing Granger to be his friend might have very well saved his life. In fact, he knew it had. He owed her a life-debt, if not several and Draco knew he would do whatever it took to prove that her faith and friendship in him was not misplaced. “I know, sir. Any word on when my trial might be?” 

Kingsley’s hand dropped from Draco’s shoulder and he twisted his wand between his fingers, casting a _Tempus_ in the air and sighing at the numbers that appeared. “Hopefully, by this time next week, if not maybe two to three weeks. I need to get back to the office and reach out to Hermione to sign her statement and present them both to the board, who schedules the trials. I will let you know when I hear something.” 

Draco nodded, “Alright.” 

“Any other questions? I ought to be going.” 

“No, sir. Thank you again for your time and help. I really appreciate it.” 

Draco stared at the spot where Shacklebolt stood for a moment after he disapparated before breathing in the crisp air and dragging his feet through the tall grass to the cottage. He pushed open the door and immediately collapsed into a sagging armchair. His eyes closed and sleep came fitfully, his body tight and muscles sore with fatigue. He woke hours later with his muscles aching and his neck unable to turn to the left, but no longer felt dead on his feet. 

Pushing up from the chair, Draco surveyed the small cottage. The kitchen was adjacent to the small living area and the only bedroom contained two twin beds with clean linens. A small washroom with a clawfoot tub was positioned across a short hallway from the bedroom. When he came back into the living area, complete with a brick-laid hearth, two chairs, a petite table, and a short bookshelf with a handful of volumes scattered over the shelves, Draco heard the soft hoot of an owl. 

The beautiful bird sat poised on the windowsill, looking at him with knowing eyes and Draco rummaged around in the kitchen until he located a quill, a pot of ink, and a sheaf of parchment. He crouched over the petite table, wondering what he could possibly say to Hermione, but once he started writing, he found it difficult to stop. 

_Hermione,_

_I am writing to you from a Ministry safehouse. I presume I am somewhere in England but I know little beyond the name of the safehouse and the few landmarks I have seen. I provided Kingsley with my confession and memories and he is hoping to set a trial for me by next week. He showed me yours, though I didn’t have a chance to view your memories, I know some of what we both submitted will likely be the same._

_I’m in your debt, Granger. Without you, I’d be rotting in Azkaban by now, forgotten in some icy room with mold growing on the floor, never to see the sun again. I’ll never be able to make it up to you._

_Thank you for being my friend and for saving my life, more than once._

_Knowing I did nothing to save you from the torture inflicted upon you by my aunt is a regret that will stay with me until I die. Hermione, I’m so sorry. I tried to think, tried to find a course of action to save you from her, but I failed at every turn. I will go to my grave, whenever that may be, with the knowledge of my cowardice and inaction in that moment weighing heavily on my mind. I can’t ask you to forgive me for that when I know it’s something for which I’ll never be able to forgive myself._

_I hope we can reconnect soon, but I understand if that is not something you wish to do with everything that has happened over the past year. I’m grateful to know you made it through the past year alive and if you ask it of me, I will let you live your life in peace._

_I’ve asked the owl to wait for your response as it might be the only creature who can find me. Please let me know where you stand._

_Best wishes,_

_DLM_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author of this story accepts reviews/comments of people who simply enjoy their work, of course. But they are also happy to read and consider a thoughtful review of the work, even if it includes constructive criticism.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter has graphic depictions of abuse

Draco settled into life inside the grounds of the safehouse faster than anticipated. After a few days of lounging about and catching up on much-needed rest, he began to grow restless. As the days grew longer and he grew lonelier, an uneasy feeling of stress built in his chest and he resolved to do something about it. By his count, it had been roughly three weeks in complete isolation, and he was growing weary and restless. 

He knew that largely the stress and anxiety he felt was out of concern for his mother. Everyday that his mother remained in his father’s clutches meant another day she was likely being tortured and beaten. The thought of his mother lying on the floor of their home weakened and scared made tears prick in his eyes and emotions to overwhelm him. 

Prior to the war and taking the Mark, Draco spent many hours each day playing quidditch and training hard to become a better and faster Seeker. Upon being marked as a follower of the Dark Lord and cementing his place on the wrong side of the war, Draco’s endurance and muscle mass had diminished and in his renewed sense of freedom, he made it his mission to gain it all back. When he wasn’t exercising his mind by reading books or taking care of necessities such as cleaning—a new habit he had picked up while confined to the safe house, he ran over the grounds within the perimeters of the Fidelius Charm. He pushed himself, going farther and longer each day, sweat sliding over his back until his muscles ached and his breath caught.

In all of the solitary hours, when his mind was occupied with recalling information from his classes or trying to glean new skills from the books in the living room, his thoughts drifted to Hermione. The letter he had sent on his first evening in the safehouse had been delivered, though the owl returned without a reply despite him requesting the owl wait on one. The probability that she needed time to process her emotions regarding him, and likely break the news to Weasley about their friendship, was high, but his insecurities flitted about in his mind telling him that she hated him and that he would be alone forever.

Still, he wrote her again.

_Hermione,_

_I am writing you this one last letter to say goodbye. My gratitude for your companionship through the last two years goes beyond what I am capable of writing. I understand that the damage that was inflicted upon you by my family is unforgivable._

_My hope is that you find a way to live your life without the daily reminder of the terrors of the battlefield, the violence and the death that we have all experienced in our short lives, and that one day we might be able to be cordial once again._

_I wish you all the best in your future endeavours._

_Warm Wishes,_

_DLM_

Draco tightly rolled the parchment and tied it to the owl’s leg. “Don’t wait this time. I don’t think she will reply.” 

The owl hooted in reply before taking off,turning south and flying off into the afternoon sun. 

* * *

As Draco sat down in the armchair adjacent to the bookshelf in the sitting room, the wards alerted that someone had approached the border of the Fidelius Charm

Fear washed over Draco, and he gripped the galleon in his pocket tightly, apprehensive about what he might find when he looked outside, imagining any number of things from Death Eaters draped in heavy robes and silver masks to a contingent of Aurors with dementors at their backs. 

The tall and dark figure of Kingsley Shacklebolt appeared just beyond the edge of the wards, wand waving in the air to pass through the layers of spellwork that protected Draco. 

Draco sank back down into the chair, uncertain of what news Kingsley would bring. 

His previous visits had been about obtaining information—addresses and locations of Death Eater safe houses and hang-outs, traps, and dead-ends. Each time, Kingsley assured him that his mother was safe, but was unable to be extracted from wherever she was, which the Auror conveniently neglected to divulge. 

When Kingsley approached, he looked tired, haggard, and dirty. Draco knew he was probably exhausted, and wouldn’t want to waste time with pleasantries, so he cut to the chase. 

“What’s the news?” 

Kingsley sighed, “It’s good this time. Nearly all of the remaining Death Eaters were apprehended in a multi-day sting, thanks to your last bout of information. Your mother was extracted from Malfoy Manor and taken to St. Mungo’s for medical clearance. She appeared magically exhausted, but seemingly physically unharmed.” While he was grateful his mother was receiving specialised care from healers—not house elves, he knew she was likely in worse shape than Kingsley knew. It had been his father’s signature: leave injuries that were rarely able to be detected.

“The healers informed us that it would probably be a few days of bed rest and some nourishment potions and she would be fine, pending all imaging and scans, of course.” 

“Thank you.” His mother was safe and being cared for, Death Eaters had been apprehended and were currently rotting in Azkaban, but there seemed to be something Kinglsey wasn’t disclosing. 

Kingsley cleared his throat. “All Death Eaters except one have been apprehended, but we expect to have him locked up by the end of day tomorrow based on information we have received.” 

Draco’s blood ran cold at the thought of his father on the run, knowing Lucius Malfoy would likely seek him out to finish the job he’d seemed so intent on carrying out since Draco was a child. “Who?”

“Rabastan Lestrange. He slipped right through the anti-apparition and magic dampening wards we had placed with a skill we were unaware he possessed.” 

Despite this being devastating news, Draco felt a small sense of relief wash over him. He remembered Rabastan being Voldemort’s ward specialist—the wizard could dismantle any wards he ever faced—and second only to his father, was one of the most violent and resourceful of all the Death Eaters.

Desperate to change the subject to prevent his anxiety from spiralling, Draco pushed thoughts of his uncle’s brother from his mind. “Do we have a date for my trial yet?”

“You’re scheduled for Friday morning, first thing. Your memories, as well as Miss Granger’s are already in the evidence locker. The barristers assigned to your case have been briefed on your stance, Miss Granger's statement as well as Mister Potter’s.” 

Draco’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “Potter is testifying for me? Why? I was horrible to him.” 

The fear that washed over Draco that Potter might taint his statement in an effort to imprison him consumed him. Flashes of every spiteful and hateful thing Draco had ever done to the man rushed through the forefront of his mind. 

Kingsley chuckled, “Seems that Miss Granger has had a conversation with him regarding your innocence.”

The boiling emotions within him cooled to a simmer knowing Granger still had his back, even if she wouldn’t respond to his letters. 

“Well, I ought to be off and get some rest for tomorrow. I have been up for three days straight and if I take any more rejuvenation potions the healers tell me I might collapse for two weeks. I will bring over formal robes for you to wear for your trial on Friday morning and escort you there myself. Make sure you have everything because that will hopefully be the last time you see the inside of this safe house.” 

Apprehension rolled through Draco’s already fragile mind as the reality of his situation set in. If the trial did not go how he expected (hoped), he would face a lifetime of prison bars, cold and moldy cells, torture and starvation, and almost certainly death by the hand of some corrupt guard. 

Draco swallowed loudly, “Shacklebolt, what if I am not cleared of the charges, and the Wizengamot decides I need to spend time in Azkaban?” 

The corner of Kingley’s mouth lifted in a small smirk. “The galleon that I gave you will turn into a portkey at the time of the ruling. If for whatever reason, things do not go the way we expect them to, your portkey will take you to another safe house where a dear old friend will escort you to MACUSA. From there, you will be given another identity and monitored safely by a few of my associates there.” 

“So,I would never be able to return to England and would be forced to live out the remainder of my life in the United States?”

Kingsley nodded, “It’ll be a while yet before we’re able to clean up the rampant corruption in Azkaban. For the service you’ve provided, I’d prefer you weren’t met with the fate I know awaits you if you’re sentenced.” 

“I understand. Thank you for all of this, Kingsley.” Draco offered his hand. 

Kingsley took it, returning the firm handshake. “It’s not me you have to thank, Miss Granger is the brains behind the whole operation. I just pull the strings in order to make things happen, but as it turns out she is excellent at planning and quite resourceful.” 

Draco couldn’t help but nod in agreement. He missed her and the way her face lit up when she was working through whatever plan was spinning through her mind. She would be an asset to the new government if that is what she chose to pursue. 

“If you need anything, use the galleon. Otherwise, I will see you Friday morning, seven sharp.” 

“Yes sir. Not a second later.” 

It struck him as odd that Hermione was orchestrating all of these plans for him, but was unwilling to respond to his letter. The niggling suspicion that something wasn’t quite right lingered for a moment but disappeared quickly as the vision of broken and bleeding on the floor of his drawing room while he stood by flashed in his mind and he understood her reluctance to respond

* * *

  
Draco was briefed before his trial by Kingsley and the Ministry-appointed barrister who was seeking to clear all charges against him. His barrister, Jameson Bell, seemed confident in Draco’s story and was given the privilege to watch his and Hermione’s memories prior to the trial and was optimistic that the charges would be dropped quickly. 

Kingsley turned toward Draco, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, “I spoke to the team of healers taking care of your mother prior to my arrival at the safe house. It appears that she has healed enough to be discharged this evening. I can accompany you there if you wish.” 

Draco choked back the tears of relief that threatened to fall. “I’ll let you know after this. I don’t want to make plans just yet.” 

Bell patted Draco on the back, “Don’t worry, lad, this will go exactly how we need it to. I am very, _very_ good at my job.” 

Kingsley chuckled, “Modest too. Don’t fret, Draco. Bell here has quite a way with words.” 

The two laughed heartily and slapped each other’s arms like they were old pals. 

When the clock chimed the hour, Bell gestured for Draco to walk towards the courtroom. 

The knots in his stomach tightened when they approached the entrance. Draco stopped and braced himself against a pillar just outside the door, clutching his chest as the tell-tale signs of a panic attack set in. His breaths were short pants and a deep pressure settled into his chest like a vice-grip on his lungs while his heart tattoed against the inside of his ribs with fervent speed. 

Bell handed Draco a calming draught before entering. The sweetness of the potion slid across his tongue and down his throat immediately easing the anxiety burning through his body. 

Bell squeezed his shoulder, “Let’s go free you, kid.” 

Draco was grateful for the man’s enthusiasm and compassion, even if he was still nervous about the outcome. 

To say the courtroom was intimidating would be an understatement: a single chair in the center of the room surrounded by risers that were filled with people. As the potion continued to settle into his system, Draco could feel his heart rate slowing and the pressure of his blood in his veins easing. Draco reached in his pocket and palmed the galleon for security, remembering Kingsley’s words three days prior. 

He took his place in the centre of the room, easing down gracefully in a high backed chair. Bell and Kingsley took seats to his right, near Hermione and Potter while the Wizengamot was spread across the entire left side, each member surveying him. 

Two loud knocks of the gavel pulled Draco from his thoughts, forcing him to pay attention to everything happening in front of him. He straightened his back and drew a deep breath, waiting for the proceedings to begin, raising his Occlumency shields while he waited. 

“Good Morning, distinguished guests and members of the Wizengamot. Today we will begin the trial of Mr Malfoy. He is facing the charges of use of an Unforgivable, violence against Muggles, breaking of the Statute of Secrecy, and attempted murder. These charges carry a minimum sentence of two years probation and frequent wand monitoring and a maximum sentence of life in Azkaban should a guilty verdict be rendered.

Draco swallowed loudly as each person in the room watched his expressions carefully. His anxiety was beginning to fight through not only his Occlumency barriers but through the Calming Draught. 

“Mr Malfoy, how do you plead to the presented charges?”

“Not―”

“My client pleads not guilty as charged, sir,” Mr Bell said and Draco was grateful for his intervention as he didn’t trust his own voice.

“On what grounds does Mr Malfoy plead not guilty?” 

Bell winked at Draco as if he could read his mind before turning to the members of the Wizengamot. “Good Morning Ladies and Gentleman of the Wizengamot. I wish to tell you about Mr Malfoy here,” he said, gesturing towards Draco. 

“He is just a month shy of his eighteenth birthday. He has suffered extensive amounts of emotional, physical, and magical abuse at the hand of his father, who is well known in this courtroom I am most certain.” The man paused dramatically, placing one hand over his chest and a closed fist over his mouth. Kingsley was not wrong, this man definitely knew how to work a crowd. 

“From the age he could walk and talk, Mr Malfoy has experienced unimaginable horrors at the hand of the man who was supposed to love and protect him. On his sixteenth birthday, instead of having a party with his friends and classmates as all teens should have, he was held forcibly at wandpoint and told that if he didn’t accept the Dark Mark, his mother would be tortured and murdered in front of him, at which time, the same fate would befall him.” Bell paused again, pacing more, allowing the story he was weaving to settle over the Wizengamot before moving on. “Since that day, Draco Malfoy has been coerced into doing many a despicable task and has been consistently steered down the wrong path by other Death Eaters and their sympathizers.”

“But!” Mr Bell held up his finger before calmly gesturing to the right. “In a moment of desperation, he reached out to a war heroine, forging an unlikely friendship which, quite honestly, saved his life.” 

Hermione’s face bore a tight smile, but Draco could see through to the sadness in her eyes. 

“The reason, my esteemed members of the Wizengamot, that my client is pleading not guilty is because he shouldn’t be further punished for the pain and suffering inflicted upon him by not only an abusive father but a megalomaniac master.” Bell turned to Draco, “Most recently, Mr Malfoy assisted Kingsley Shacklebolt, our interim Minister for Magic, Shacklebolt, our interim Minister for Magic, in providing information to the Auror corps regarding known locations of marked Death Eaters and their safe houses. This, in turn, led to a successful sting operation resulting in nearly resulting in nearly all of the offending cult members to be arrested and temporarily imprisoned as they await their trials.” 

“My client here has submitted memories from various important times in his life, and has also offered to testify under Veritaserum if necessary.” Bell nodded at Draco, prompting him to also nod, verifying his agreement before the court.

“If there are no further questions regarding the validity of my clients’ position—” Bell scanned the room, though no one spoke out. “—I present to you the first piece of evidence: Mr Malfoy’s memory from the day he was branded as a Death Eater.” 

A projection charm was used to display Draco’s memory on the screen behind him from the pensieve into which Bell poured the memory. His eyes closed, the memory playing behind his eyelids as it played on the screen. 

_Draco entered the dining room to a table overflowing with all of his favourite foods. He expected to see his friends and schoolmates surrounding the table, but much to his dismay, the table was instead surrounded by witches and wizards clothed in heavy cloaks, fine robes, and tatty gowns, the several of whom appeared very put-out to be at what appeared to be a birthday party for a teenage boy._

_Draco cleared his throat to catch the attention of his father, but everyone stopped their conversations and cheered various greetings._

_Lucius stood, and walked towards Draco. “Happy birthday, my dear heir. I have a surprise for you this evening after your birthday feast, please join us.” he said as he gestured toward the empty chair to his right._

_“Where’s Mother?”_

_“She will join us later, my son. Don’t fret.” Lucius’ tone was sweet but forceful, and Draco knew he was putting up a facade of fatherly affection in front of his friends._

_Draco huffed in annoyance, taking the seat between his father and the burly Viking, Rowle._

_“Aye, happy birthday young lad. Cheers,” the man grunted, clanking his mug of mulled wine against Draco’s stationary water goblet causing the liquid to slosh over the sides onto the fine linens adorning the table and Draco’s place setting._

_Draco sneered at the man, astonished by Rowle’s lack of etiquette. He flicked his wand over his plate to vanish the mess, ensuring the stain was removed before serving himself._

_As he ate, Draco eyed the people surrounding the table carefully, uncertain as to why they had been invited to his birthday dinner. Where were Pansy and Theo and Blaise? Even Crabbe and Goyle would have been better than this motley crew. The lack of his friends was unpleasant but the conversation that flowed around him was even worse. Stories of muggle beatings, rape, and other atrocities filled his ears for the twenty minutes that he picked at his foods. When a light clink sounded, Draco glanced up to see his father holding his glass of firewhisky high in the air._

_“To my most loyal and strong son, Draco. You have made me endlessly proud throughout your years on this earth. The next steps of your life are some of the most crucial. You are a man now, my son. I wish you the happiest of birthdays.”_

_From the outside, it painted a picture of normalcy, of fatherly pride and love, but Draco could see through it. Lucius had never known the true meaning of love, and despite the false emotion he was showing now, Draco was certain he would still suffer under his father’s wand later when the firewhisky controlled his father’s mind._

_Through the yips and cheers of the present company, he heard a guffaw from someone further down the table._

_“The Dark Lord will be so proud.”_

_Ice cracked in his veins as the realization of the purpose of this gathering set in. His stomach turned and his dinner threatened to reappear. Draco pushed back from the table and calmly walked out of the dining room before sprinting to the washroom so as not to lose his dinner on the ancient rugs his mother adored. After the cold sweats dissipated and the shaking in his hands began to ebb, Draco splashed cool water on his face, trying to convince himself that his father couldn’t force the Mark upon him._

_A few minutes later, a knock sounded on the door to the washroom and he heard the sickly sweet voice of his aunt. “Draco, my sweet nephew?”_

_Draco took a calming breath and opened the door. “Yes?”_

_She reached out and pinched his cheek, “Look at you, so grown up. You have made us all proud, you know? Endlessly proud, my nephew.”_

_Draco swatted her hand away with a sneer and stepped out of the washroom and into the hall, “I don’t understand what you are talking about. Where is my mother?” His voice raised with each word._

_The ice-cold tone of his father cut in as he turned the corner. “She’s waiting for you in the drawing-room, my son. Come along, let’s see her.” Lucius gripped the back of his neck in an altogether too familiar display of control but Draco shrugged out of his father’s hold and ran towards the drawing-room, his stomach churning again with every step._

_He threw open the doors to see his mother bound to an armchair, magical restraints digging into her skin. Tears streamed from her eyes, wetting the cloth shoved into her mouth that rendered her silent._

_“Draco―”_

_“What is this, father? Why is she tied up?” Draco couldn’t stop the onslaught of emotions and moved towards his mother in an attempt to free her, but was hit with a stinging hex before he could reach her and he stumbled._

_“Draco—” Lucius closed the door to the drawing-room and flicked his wand to set wards over the door. “—tonight you will be bestowed the greatest honor. Our Lord has decided you should be Marked as one of his own.”_

_Draco drew back, taking another step closer to his mother. “I knew it. If you thought tying up my mother would make me want to take that blasted Mark, you’re wrong. You have to be willing to take the Mark for it to burn into your skull, and I am not willing.”_

_“Now Draco, I encourage you to consider it. The Dark Lord is_ very _interested in your intelligence, you would play an important role among his supporters.”_

_“No, father. I will not,” Draco said, standing his ground._

_His father sneered, “Draco, don’t make me force my hand.”_

_Grey eyes narrowed in confusion as Draco’s gaze flicked between his mother and his father. “What does that even mean?”_

_Narcissa screamed behind her gag, fighting against the restraints by which she was bound._

_“What did you do to her” Draco couldn’t hide the worry in his tone and tears pricked at the corner of his eyes as he listened to the sound of his mother’s screams._

_“You see, my son. I need you to take the Mark, to prove how dedicated you are to this family. Family is everything, Draco. Your mother and I―” Narcissa fought harder against the restraints, tears pouring from her eyes._

“Silencio,” _Lucius lazily flicked his wand towards his wife, causing the room to fall silent, though Draco could still see the way her skin was mottled with purpling bruises from the restraints as she fought against them._

_For the first time in his life, Draco raised his wand towards Lucius, “Father―”_

_“_ Expelliarmus.” _Draco’s wand flew from his hand, landing in his father’s open palm._

_“Your mother and I feel that it is best for you to listen to my advice, my son. Our world is not safe, not until the Wizarding world is pure again. The Dark Lord will rectify this, and our family will be heroes once again, respected and considered the noblest and most pure of all”_

_His voice cracked as he shouted at his father. “You are the reason this family is no longer noble or respected. You are the reason the Malfoy family reputation is rubbish!”_

_Lucius did a poor job of shielding his irritation over Draco’s insolence, “Draco, you will be Marked._

_“I said no, Father. Now let my mother go!” Draco’s fists balled at his sides. He had never turned against his father in all sixteen years of his life, but concern for his mother and the sheer anger he felt that his father would dare use his mother against him threatened to change that. Once upon a time, he had looked up to this man, and had wanted to be like him, but now all Draco wanted to do was cast the Unforgivable that would rip Lucius Malfoy’s breath from his body._

Lucius trained his wand on his wife, his arm steady as his mouth and magic formed the spell. “Crucio.” _Narcissa’s body clenched, her mouth forming another silent scream as her fingernails dug into the patterned fabric of the armchair._

_“No! Stop it! Draco made a move to lunge toward his mother, but his feet were stuck where they stood. He looked towards his father. ”Make it stop. Don’t hurt her.”_

_Lucius only smirked at his son’s predicament. “Pledge your allegiance to the Dark Lord, Draco or I will continue. How long do you think your frail mother will last beneath my wand? It seemed as though it took you a few days to recover after a measly ten seconds. Shall I continue?”_

_“Stop it, you will kill her.” Draco pleaded, tears flowing over his cheeks as he watched his mother be tortured. Bile rose in his throat, knowing this was not the first, nor would it be the last time this happened. He’d never been able to prevent it before, what made him think he stood a chance now?_

_“If that’s what it takes you to understand what is required of you.”_

_Draco wanted to barter but he didn’t have time. His father may have temporarily slowed the force of his magic upon his mother, but if Draco didn’t provide a response quickly enough, it would begin again. Extended periods of time under the Cruciatus Curse caused many issues after-the-fact: seizures, debilitating headaches and intractable vomiting would occur for days until making a recovery. Countless times had he suffered beneath his father’s wand, but he was younger—stronger than his mother and he couldn’t let his father murder the one person who loved him unconditionally._

_“I’ll do it. I’ll take the Mark, but don’t you dare touch my mother again.”_

_Narcissa fell limp in the chair, aftershocks from the curse causing her muscles to twitch. A tinge of pink appeared at the edge of the gag in her mouth before a droplet of blood rolled down her pale chin. Draco watched the droplet as it fell into the damp, soiled fabric beneath his mother’s body and he swiped the tears from his eyes._

_He should be stronger. He should be able to stand up to his father—to save his mother. His mother didn’t deserve this, not now—not ever._

_“Leave her, the Dark Lord does not like to be kept waiting.”_

_Draco’s head whipped around, his eyes alight with anger. “I can’t leave her like this!”_

_Lucius lifted his wand again and it was enough for Draco to raise his hands in supplication._

_He moved to follow his father out of the room, knowing how devastated his mother would be when she came to, knowing she had been powerless against Draco taking the Mark._

_Draco stalked down the hall back towards the dining room. He gathered his courage, clearing his mind and building the necessary shields around his thoughts. Chills ran down his spine as he saw the Dark Lord sitting at the head of the table, the Death Eaters at the table around him speaking amongst each other in hushed tones, a marked difference from the dinner where they all fought to be the loudest at the table._

_“Ahh, Draco, I was very pleased when your father told me about your plans for tonight. Please, come sit here next to me, my boy.” Lord Voldemort’s voice was measured and lilting, a terrifyingly calm smile curving over his pale lips._

_Draco sat down solemnly near the head of the table, across from his father. While others might mistake his mood for awe and honor, he silently mourned his fate knowing he would be branded before the night ended and his destiny sealed._

_“Now my loyal comrades, the most loyal houses of Malfoy and Black have shown a renewed commitment to our cause.”_

_Cheers erupted over the group of Death Eaters, their faces lit with a myriad of emotions from joy to condescension._

_“Lucius has informed me that young Draco has been deemed worthy and is willing to take our pledge, to join our quest to make the world pure once again.”_

_Draco looked across the table towards his father who looked like the proud father he should have been at any moment other than this._

_The Dark Lord’s graying hand waved lazily in front of Draco. “Remove your coat, my boy, I must see your left arm.”_

_He didn’t move as images of his mother limp and pale, while gagged and bound to the chair in the drawing-room came flooding back to his mind. He choked back his emotions, reinforcing the walls in his mind and and clearing his face of all emotion._

_“Draco?” the Dark Lord questioned, his red-rimmed eyes peering carefully over the young Malfoy heir._

_Draco removed his coat, placing it on the arm of the chair. “I’m sorry, sir.”_

_“You shall address me as My Lord from now on, is that understood?”_

_Draco nodded reluctantly. “Yes, My Lord.”_

_“Wonderful, let the ceremony begin.” When the Dark Lord’s cold and clammy hand reached for Draco’s wrist, he offered it, keeping the reasons for his willingness to be branded at the forefront of his mind._

_His mother._

_His life._

_His mother._

His mother.

_A searing pain swept through his arm as if one-thousand needles were tearing through his skin and he clenched his teeth, desperate to not show weakness by screaming. He held back the tears as the crowd began to cheer and the smell of burning flesh filled his nose. After what felt like hours, the pain eased to a gentle throbbing and Draco looked down at his forearm to see the black coiled snake and skull bright upon his pale skin._

_The Dark Lord looked over his work, obviously pleased before turning to Draco’s father. “Well done, Lucius. I didn’t think you would be able to convince him to join our worthy cause.”_

_Lucius’s lips curved up into a smirk as he glanced toward his son.“It took very little convincing., My Lord. He mostly does what he is told.”_

As the memory stopped playing over the projection, the courtroom remained silent, so silent in fact, that Draco was certain they could hear his quickening heartbeat. 

He turned to look towards Hermione who had a tight grip on Potter’s sweater, her face buried in his chest, while Potter’s hand rubbed soothing circles over her back, his own eyes glassy and facial expression tight. 

Kingsley’s thumbs were circling one another his elbows perched on his knees, as he made eye contact with only the ground. 

Bell paced pensively, his hands behind his back, tightly clutching his notes in his fingers. 

As Draco looked over the members of the Wizengamot, many of the women were dabbing their tears with little handkerchiefs, while several of the men were looking to the ceiling attempting to shield their own emotions. 

The room, which had before buzzed with the energy of the first Death Eater trial, had sobered considerably in the time it took to review Draco’s first memory. 

Additional snippets of Draco’s memories were played on the screen behind him, earning simultaneous gasps of horror and pity as the Wizengamot watched Draco’s father abuse him over the years. Beaten with a broom for dropping the Quaffle instead of catching it. Cursed and left for dead on the floor after coming home two hours late from Pansy’s wearing a pair of muggle jeans. Endless strings of words muttered into his ears as he was told time and again he was worthless and pathetic. Blood staining the carpet after his O.W.L. results arrived. 

Hermione’s memory of the night he agreed to be an informant played shortly after Potter’s memory of the night at Malfoy Manor where Hermione was tortured.

After a short recess, another calming draught and some chocolate biscuits, the court reconvened and he found himself once again in the center of the room. Hermione avoided eye contact while Potter sat up straighter than Draco had ever seen when he was asked to rise for the verdict.

An overwhelming majority of the Wizengamot voted to clear him of all charges without penalty or probation.

He didn’t remember walking out of the courtroom until he fell into a heap on the floor outside, tears of joy for the first time he could remember streaking over his cheeks. 

He was a free man.

_Free._

It was the best outcome he could have possibly hoped for and for the first time in his life he felt as if he might be capable of conjuring a Patronus. 

He felt someone crouch down next to him and he looked up to see Kingsley smiling above him, “What did I tell you?” Kingsley held out his hand to Draco, pulling him to his feet. “Shall we go tell your mother the good news?” 

Draco smiled through the tears, as he allowed Kingsley to help him up from the ground. 

He glanced down the hall towards the exit to see Hermione leaving, hand in hand with Weasley. Weasley leaned down and placed a kiss against her temple and her body curled into the tall redhead. Draco tamped down the jealousy he felt in that moment, reminding himself of the fact that he accepted that Hermione had chosen her path, that the damage inflicted upon her was too great, and that she needed to move on with her life. If being with Weasley healed her, and made her happy, then he would support her from afar. 

Kinglsey led him down the hall toward the lifts. “Now, about your home. You are allowed to return, but you will find it does not appear the same as it had the last time you stepped foot in it. It sustained some damage as we apprehended several Death Eaters. The drawing room, notably, sustained damage such that it will require a complete remodel, though the remainder of the house will likely require a few repairs here and there.”

“We also removed any Dark artefacts and had a curse breaker dismantle all of the unsavoury wards that were ingrained into the structure of the home. You just need to reset security wards when you arrive, but it should be safe otherwise.” 

Draco nodded and gave Kingsley a tight smile. He could live with the drawing room being obliterated, but it would take time before he could enter that wing of the house without fear clawing at his throat. It would be a long road ahead before the trauma of his childhood was largely behind him, but for the first time in months, Draco felt hope bloom within his chest. 

“Now, let’s go get your mother.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter has some not graphic, but non-consensual elements that are tagged before the section

After the dust settled from the final battle, Hermione, Harry and Ron returned to Ottery St. Catchpole, where the Burrow once stood. The Weasley family were staying in an impressive network of tents on the property as the men rebuilt their family home. Hermione and Ginny shared one room of the tent, with Ron and Harry next door. She rarely slept in her own bed, especially the nights when nightmares plagued her. She moved between Harry and Ron, seeking comfort when the lines between trauma and reality blurred, who always welcomed her with open arms and a shoulder to cry on. 

Once the home was standing again, the absence of Fred hit the Weasley’s hard, and Harry and Hermione decided they should allow them time to grieve.

The moment Harry and Hermione were given permission by the Ministry to return to the newly curse-free Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, they decided that cleaning up the place and living somewhere rent-free didn’t sound so bad. After a month of scouring, sweeping, repairing, and rearranging, Harry and Hermione were finally settled.

After a long conversation with Ron and Harry one night after she and Harry were fully settled, Hermione decided to see if she could try and restore her parent’s memories and convince them to come home. Deep down, she knew it was a longshot. Even if she was able to restore their memories, there was a chance that her parents would be furious with her and that they wouldn’t want to return home. 

The day she arrived in Australia, she obtained their address through the Australian Ministry of Magic, and when she showed up at their home, it was surrounded by Muggle police and news vans. She was escorted to the station by two police officers, where the news that her parents had been killed in a drunk-driving incident the evening before, was given. She was devastated, anger and melancholy clawed at her throat and she barely had the wherewithal to give the police officers permission to release the bodies to the undertaker for funeral preparation. 

Since owl posts took weeks to travel across continents, Harry and Ron had no access to muggle communication, and her parent’s home was never connected to the Floo Network, Hermione was forced to sort through their belongings and sell their house by herself. 

When her portkey returned to England, weeks later, Harry and Ron were waiting for her in the reception area of the Portkey Office, both holding giant bouquets of flowers. Hermione dropped to her knees, heavy tears rolling down her cheeks as she released everything she had been holding back since the news of her parent’s deaths. Ron was the first to scoop her off the ground, whispering words of comfort into her curls. 

It took Hermione three hours to stop crying and to find the words to tell Harry and Ron what had happened. Every night after she returned from Australia, she was plagued with memories of her parents, nightmares twisting the reality of the situation into visions of Helen and Richard Granger being murdered in cold-blood by Voldemort, or tortured to death by Bellatrix. 

After one month of coping with the losses she experienced, her life was slowly returning to something resembling what she perceived to be normal. 

The relationship she shared with Ron experienced different bumps along the road, but ever since their kiss after the war, things had been going well. She still harboured amorous feelings for a certain blond wizard, but things with Ron were progressing quite nicely. He was there to hold her at night when the memories of her parents became too much, to whisper words of encouragement in her ear when she couldn’t do anything but cry. 

Hermione struggled with feelings of inadequacy and reticence, always feeling as though she was waiting for the other shoe to drop, that something would go wrong. But Ron constantly assured her that nothing was wrong and that he was happy she chose to pursue a relationship with him. 

She thought about the conversation that they had had the night prior, about taking their relationship to the next level and she still felt as though now was not the right time, but would it ever be? 

Things with Ron were, well, predictable. She didn’t feel the heat deep in her core that romance novels described, and butterflies didn’t riot when he was nearby. She didn’t ever look at Ron and feel an overwhelming need to kiss him or hold him, but it was comfortable, like an old blanket—reliable and easy. 

Hermione still battled with the feelings she had for Draco, despite his obvious lack of interest in maintaining the relationship they had shared before she, Harry, and Ron set off on Dumbledore’s impossible task. Kingsley informed her that he had sent an owl to the safe house and that Draco was writing letters, as he had seen many sheets of parchment crumpled in the rubbish bin, but every day she waited and nothing came. 

Then, she thought maybe she would write him herself, letting him know how proud of him she was for doing what he did to survive, and for going to the DMLE straight away. But, she knew from his trial that his mental state was a fragile thing, given the anguish and abuse he’d suffered from a young age at the hand of his father.

Regardless, it was time for her to move on from silly childhood trifles to something steady and dependable, which Ron had proven himself to be. Hermione looked at her watch as she sat in the Chinese restaurant down the street from the Ministry that she and Ron had agreed on prior to the start of his shift at work. It wasn’t uncommon for him to be late, but he usually let her know when that was the case. She wasn’t brave enough to try her hand at a Patronus again, since her last failed attempt had caused an emotional spiral that lasted over twenty-four hours. 

Instead, she sat at the table, twiddling her thumbs, memorizing the menu and reassuring the waitress that her date would be there soon. After another twenty minutes ticked by, making Ron over an hour late, Hermione decided to order her food as takeaway and eat it from the comforts of her own home, where she didn’t feel like she was being constantly watched. 

When she arrived at Grimmauld Place, Harry was sitting at the table in the kitchen flipping through the latest edition of  _ Quidditch Weekly _ , sipping a cuppa. 

“Hey, Hermione! I thought it was date night tonight? Where’s Ron?” Harry looked behind her, his eyes clearly searching for his friend. 

“He never showed, probably got stuck at work and just forgot to let me know.” She tried to brush off the niggling feeling in her gut that something else was amiss, but it wouldn’t budge.

One of Harry’s eyebrows arched beneath his messy fringe as he searched her face. “You didn’t hear anything from him? At all? Because the Seniors all left early today, so no trainees would stay, and Ron was walking out of the department before I was.” 

Hermione swallowed loudly, tears pricking the corner of her eyes, the bag of takeaway slipping out of her fingers and onto the floor. “He was?” 

Harry quickly rushed out of his chair, pulling Hermione in for a tight hug, “I’m sorry, maybe he got stuck at the Burrow. Merlin knows Molly has been quite melancholy lately. I’m sure you will hear something from him soon.” 

“I hope so.” She swallowed back the emotions that were always too close to the surface, threatening to spill over and send her spiralling. Bending down, Hermione picked up the paper bag from the floor by the handles, holding it out towards Harry. “Are you hungry? I have too much to eat myself.” 

Harry smiled at her, already moving toward the kitchen. “I would  _ love _ to eat with you, Hermione.” 

* * *

He had been monitoring their patterns for a month now. 

Weasley would come home from work, shower and presumably meet Granger, before spending the evening with her and coming home late. Today was Tuesday which meant that he would go home, shower, meet the Mudblood at a restaurant, and likely stay the night with her. 

Disgusting. 

Weasley appeared from the muggle telephone booth that ran along the side of a building in the middle of Muggle London where Wizards could enter the Floo network that led to the various departments of the Ministry. His robes were rumpled from a day of work, a stain marring the lapel, and his hair mussed as if he’d been running his fingers through it over the course of the day. How anyone took Weasley seriously, with his dishevelled appearance, he didn’t know. 

He did know—his blood traitor parents had never taught him better. 

“Would you look at that? Right on schedule.” Rabastan smirked, tapping the face of his watch before checking his surroundings for any witnesses. A set of muggle women passed, simpering about something in hushed giggles, but his sight never strayed from his target. When they passed, Rabastan disillusioned himself, rushing across the street to where the Auror-In-Training was checking his pockets.

Before Weasley could disapparate, Rabastan trapped him in a chokehold, placing one hand over his mouth, his other squeezing the pathetic blood traitor's neck. His hold tightened when Weasley managed to land his elbow directly to Rabastan’s stomach. 

Weasley gasped for breath, clawing at Rabastan’s hands, but he didn’t relent, only squeezed tighter as he dragged them back into an alley and out of sight. “Make any sounds or screams and I’ll slice your bloody throat,” he grumbled into the redhead’s ear. 

He disapparated the moment he was able to form the image of the apparition point outside of his safehouse within his mind. Rabastan released Weasley, who immediately fell to the ground in a heap—pale, sweating, and dry-heaving.

After dismantling the wards, he picked Ron up by the collar of his robes, dragging him into the safe house. His captive kicked and swung, lanky limbs moving quicker than anticipated as a few hits landed against him before Rabastan had the wherewithal to cast an  _ Immobulus. _

The fear on Weasley’s face was apparent when Rabastan finally cancelled the spell after securing the blood traitor to a chair. 

“You’re―you’re Rabastan Lestrange, aren’t you?” 

That caught him a bit off guard. “You are a lot brighter than you look. Nevermind, I take that back. You know for an Auror-in-Training you certainly had no idea that I’ve been tailing you for a month.” Rabastan tested the strength of the wrist restraints holding Weasley to the chair.

“If you’re going to kill me, just do it already.” Despite the vitriol with which he spat the words, Rabastan could see Ron’s hands shaking and the fear in his eyes. It gave him great pleasure to know how easily the redhead was to rile up. 

“Oh no, I have much more exciting plans for you. I’m going to place you under the  _ Imperius _ curse, gain the trust of your little Mudblood girlfriend, and well… I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise―” 

The smile grew on his face as he thought of how he could use this imbecile for his own gain, even as the Weasley brat screamed for her safety. Forcing the blood-traitor to rape his dirty little Mudblood girlfriend was only the icing on the cake. Little did Weasley know that he would be the person responsible for the uprising of underground blood purists, and taking down key players for the light one by one. 

“No! Not Hermione. Torture me, kill me, but leave her alone, she’s been through enough.” 

Rabastan levelled his wand at him, the gnarled wood pressing into Weasley’s temple. “Don’t make me silence you boy! My dear sister in law never got the chance to finish the job, so I am going to do it for her.”

The Weasley boy broke down, much to Rabastan’s amusement, great sobs wracking his body and tears streaming down his cheeks. “Please, take me, do anything you want to me, but leave her alone. Please.” 

“I don’t think I will.” Rabastan smiled at Ron, the sinister grin stretching across his thin lips. “Mini Malfoy, the bloody coward, used her during the war to get protection, and that is just simply not the way we do things in our family. So, the only logical solution is to hurt the person who means the most to him.” 

Rabastan watched as Weasley’s eyes widened, evidently connecting a number of dots in his mind even as the tears continued to flow over his ruddy cheeks. 

“You’re lying, they were friends, nothing more. She doesn’t mean anything to him. He didn’t even write to say thank you for saving his arse!” 

“Oh, but he did. He wrote a couple of letters, actually.” Rabastan walked around the chair, waving his wand about flippantly, feigning mock ignorance, “Oh that’s right, she never got them, because I was intercepting all of her owls. Here, let me read you a few letters from the coward himself. Dear Hermione never got these, of course, it was too convenient for my plan that she gets abandoned by all her friends and family.” He approached the desk on the other side of the room and flipped through the stacks of paper adorning the top of it. 

“Family? What do you know about her family?” 

He stopped shuffling through papers for a moment to turn and speak to Weasley, eager to see the look on his pathetic face when he made his next statement. “It’s really a shame that Australians die in muggle drunk driving accidents so frequently, you know. I have a question for you, Weasley... you know, as a friend of hers. Do you think she would like a picture of her parents and I the night they died?” 

The colour drained from Weasley’s face and Rabastan laughed. 

“But―But they died in a drunk driving accident. That’s what the police told Hermione.” 

“Yes, one day before her international portkey was scheduled to land in Australia, how sad.” His face contorted into a mockery of a pout before he turned and shoved more papers aside on his desk. “That muggle that hit them was under the influence of alcohol, or that’s what the police report said anyway. He was really under the influence of an Imperius Curse, but Muggles don’t know shite about that.” 

“You bloody bastard!” 

“Ah, here we go,” Rabastan held up the crumpled sheaf of parchment, placing his glasses on the end of his nose, before clearing his throat, ignoring the way Weasley’s face flushed with anger. “ _ I’m in your debt, Granger. Without you, I’d be rotting in Azkaban by now, forgotten in some icy room with mold growing on the floor, never to see the sun again. I’ll never be able to make it up to you. Thank you for being my friend and for saving my life, more than once _ ,” Rabastan read from Draco’s letter to Hermione with a mocking tone, his mouth curved into a sneer with each word. “ _ I hope we can reconnect soon, but I understand if that is not something you wish to do with everything that has happened over the past year. I’m grateful to know you made it through the past year alive and if you ask it of me, I will let you live your life in peace. _ ” 

Rabastan placed a grimy hand against his lips. “Touching isn’t it? Pureblood Prince and Mudblood Princess—like a modern-day fairytale. If I didn’t know any better, it sounds like Mini Malfoy is in love with the girl, what do you think?” 

Ron seethed, “Don’t talk about my girlfriend like that.” 

“Do you think she tastes like mud, Weasley? I'll bet Mini Malfoy enjoyed splitting her open before you ever got a chance to see the bird naked. How can you stand to look at her, Weasley? Scars on her chest, neck, arms. Grotesque... but I suppose she'd make for a good fuck,” Rabastan said as he leaned against the desk, his facial expression very much like the cat that got the cream. 

“Stop it! Don’t talk about Hermione like that.” 

“What? Does the thought of your precious Mudblood Princess being tainted by him make you sick Weasley?” 

“Shut it, you bloody arsehole,” Weasley’s voice strained through clenched teeth, his face growing dark and flushed.

“Oh I see what’s happening here, she hasn’t let you get a taste yet, has she? Oh, this is good. Jealousy. Jealousy is a very powerful emotion, and can do a lot of damage, Weasley.” 

Weasley’s voice rose to a sharp bark, words cutting through the silence. “She would never sleep with Malfoy, she doesn’t trust him as much as you think. You’re wrong about her.” 

Rabastan thumped a single finger against his cheek, his eyes alight with Weasley’s distress. “Oh! Maybe that is why she won’t put out for you. She’s entranced by that rich Pureblood cock. Wouldn’t do to have a poor boyfriend when you can have a rich one.” 

“What do you want Lestrange? I’m an Auror, yeah? This is assault on an Auror which is a minimum of two years in Azkaban. Threatening a civilian is a year-long re-education program and 100 galleon fine. Once they pin you for those things, they will double back and sentence you to death like the rest of the bloody death eaters for War Crimes.” 

“Ahh, see that is if they ever find out, my boy—which, I really doubt they will.” 

“They will! Hermione will figure it out eventually, and then you are as good as dead.” Ron bowed up, squaring his shoulders as much as the restraints would allow, but Rabastan saw right through his facade. 

Rabstan laughed obnoxiously, “You wound me, Weasley, do you really think I am scared of a Mudblood? A bloody niffler is more intimidating than that sorry excuse for a witch.” The final word tasting like ash upon his tongue.

“You’re wrong! Hermione is the most intelligent and brightest witch of our age.” 

“Self-claimed,” Rabastan replied, idly picking at the skin covering his grimy fingernails. 

“No! No! She is, you just can’t handle it that people from a long line of pure and aristocratic families didn’t dare stand a chance against a half-blood and a Muggleborn witch.” 

His tone changed, mouth curling into a sneer as he circled his captive, “Potter got lucky, that is all. And if you think that Potter’s luck is going to keep society safe for the rest of time, you are wrong. Except for this time, you are going to help me take down this self-proclaimed brightest witch of your age.” 

He smiled, something feral and full of malice and devious intent. Watching Weasley get riled up as he tried to protect the Mudblood was intoxicating, further solidifying in Rabastan’s mind that his plan would work. “Because Potter is nothing without her, and if he loses you and her?” Rabastan drew his finger across his throat before winking at Ron. 

“Once that happens, then the blood purists come out of the woodworks, and how does that muggle saying go? Third time’s the charm? All Muggleborns will be eradicated from our society, except your precious Mudblood… as we’ve already discussed, I have plans for her.”

“I won’t do anything for you.” 

Rabastan pulled a simple ring from the pocket of his trousers, the rarely seen Weasley family crest emblazoned on it. “Sure you will, Weasley. This little ring ensures that you will do  _ whatever _ I tell you too.” He slipped the gold band on Ron’s finger and sized it to fit with a tap of his wand. He laughed as Ron tried to pull his finger away with little success due to the restraints over his wrist. 

“What is that for?” 

“That, my little Mudblood-lover, is how I am going to control you for a while. It’s a brilliant work of magic, you see, took me several weeks to layer the spells. Tracking charms, anti-autonomy hexes, a modified  _ Imperius _ … and a few fun others that I don’t think I’ll disclose just yet. No one will question it because it is the Weasley family crest, don’t you see?” 

“My family doesn’t wear things like this. Everyone will see right through it,” Ron snarled, his wrists chafed and bloody against the restraints as he continued his futile escape attempts. 

“Well when I had it commissioned by a rather prominent jeweller in Diagon, I did wear your face and any number of your friends saw me that day. So you see, my plan is foolproof.”

Before Weasley could make another tiring objection, Rabastan raised his wand and cast the curse, “ _ Imperio. _ ” 

The redness and anger left Ron’s face and he stopped struggling against the restraints, the pleasant subtle glassy sheen of the curse setting in around his eyes. He released the restraints locking Ron in place and instructed him to stand before casting a quick healing charm to remove the evidence of his restraint. 

“Alright you pureblood traitor, go home to your little girlfriend and give her my love. Off with you.” 

* * *

***SECTION WARNING: SOME NON-CON ELEMENTS HERE, NOTHING GRAPHIC***

Hermione settled into bed with a cup of tea and was reading the most recent book she had purchased for her collection. Focusing on the words proved difficult and found herself reading the same page over and over, as her mind spun with worry for Ron. 

With Harry’s admission that there weren’t any late trainings tonight for the Aurors-in-Training, a hundred scenarios swirled through her mind, but one kept jumping into the forefront of her mind:  _ he’s seeing someone else.  _ She saw the easy way he was with the witches in his training group, subtle flirting he may or may not have even realized he was doing, but she saw it... and it bothered her, though she never said anything.

The click of the door to her bedroom jolted her from her thoughts, and she looked up to see the tousled red hair of her boyfriend as he entered the room. 

A pang of relief that he was alive and unscathed rushed over her before the irritation with his lack of communication took over. She set her book aside and crossed her arms, eyebrows raising as she glared at him. “Oh, look who decided to show up. Where have you been Ronald? I waited for an  _ hour  _ at that restaurant.” 

The mattress dipped beside her as he sat on the edge of the bed, leaning down in an attempt to capture her lips. “Shhh, it’s okay. Kiss me.” 

Hermione quickly turned her head away, the soft press of his lips landing against her cheek. “What? Don’t tell me to shush. Where were you?” She pulled the blankets away from her body and shifted off the opposite side of the bed. 

Ron shook his head and slapped the comforter in obvious irritation. “Calm down, I was busy.” 

Her body tensed, bare feet shuffling against the floor as she leaned forward, hands falling to her hips. “Ronald Weasley, do not tell me to calm down. What is wrong with you? You aren’t acting like yourself right now.” 

Thick fingers carded through his dark-red hair and he managed to look sheepish. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I had a hard day at work. Can we please move past this? Come here, let me hold you.” He held an arm out to her, beckoning her with a strange smile on his face. 

“What the―are you drunk, Ronald?” 

He pushed off of the bed, hand curling around the wooden post as he moved around the bed to where she was standing. “No baby, I just missed you. Come here.” 

Her eyes narrowed and she took a step back, arms crossing over her body. “Baby? Why are you calling me that? Ronald Weasley, tell me what is going on right this instant!” Her voice grew louder to the point where she wouldn’t be surprised if Harry could hear her from the floor above. 

She pushed his face away from her, wedging her knee against his torso in an attempt to put distance between them, “Are you seeing someone else?” 

Ron rolled his eyes, setting new anger aflame within Hermione’s core. “No, love. You are the only one for me. I’m sorry. I had a couple of drinks at the bar before coming here, you see the Seniors took us out for drinks. I should have told you, I am  _ so _ sorry.” He moved toward her, holding his arms out, a puppy-dog pout forming on his lips. 

Hermione felt apprehensive, both about his story and his behaviour, but allowed Ron to pull her into an embrace. 

He kissed the top of her head, mouth moving harshly over her curls before his hands slid down to grab her arse. She attempted to wiggle out of his embrace, but he crooked a single finger beneath her chin and placed a chaste kiss against her lips. 

For a moment, she thought about slapping him and telling him to get out, but the more he began kissing her, butterflies began to develop in her stomach and a slow-burning heat began crept through her. 

He pulled back, lips ghosting over her cheek before he rested his forehead against hers. “I want you, Hermione. Let me have you.” 

His words washed over her like the frigid waves of the arctic. “Ron, please don’t push it. I’m not ready.” She struggled out of his embrace, stepping away from him and pacing the floor in front of her bed. 

Ron turned away from her, slapping a closed fist onto the wall before turning back towards her with a look of disgust on his face. “You are such a tease. Hermione. Kissing me like that, rubbing your body against me, and not letting me have you? Is this what our life together is going to be like?” 

Hermione drew back, startled by his accusations. “What in the bloody hell are you on about?” 

Ron huffed in apparent annoyance, “I just want to have sex with you, Hermione, why is that so hard for you to understand?” He ran the fingers of one hand through his hair, placing his other hand on his hip.

“What happened to our conversation about whenever I am ready, Ronald? That was just two days ago? What has changed since then?” 

Just two days prior, they laid in her bed, legs tangled and lips locked. Hermione remembered clearly as Ron gently caressed her inner thighs, causing a surge of panic to well up inside of her. When she trembled against him, he pulled her tight into his chest, whispering words of encouragement to the top of her head about how beautiful she was and how he would wait an eternity if that is what it took for her to be ready. 

Ron sighed and dropped his hands, stepping towards Hermione again. “Shhh, I’m sorry―” 

“Why are you shushing me! What in the bloody hell is wrong with you, Ron?” She shook her head, clearing her mind. “You know what? I think it’s time for you to leave. I need to think about things.” She crossed the length of the room quickly, opening her bedroom door and waving a hand toward the dark hallway.

Hermione warred with herself whether or not to push him away when Ron closed the distance between them, cupping her face with his hands gently. “No, Hermione, love. I’m so sorry, you are right, I’m―I’m just really wound up and need to relax. I won’t push it, I’m sorry. I am just falling for you, and I know that this is the next step for us and that it would be amazing.” He placed a gentle kiss against her lips, before resting his forehead against hers once again. 

Hermione stared at him with a raised brow, “You are really acting strange, Ronald.” 

He pulled her into a tight embrace, kissing the top of her head and murmuring against it, “I’m sorry, love. I’ll leave. Talk to you tomorrow?” 

She let the silence linger before she nodded, “Sure, tomorrow.” 

As Ronald left, Hermione felt the tears welling up in her eyes. She collapsed against the closed door, casting a locking spell and silencing charm before burying her face in her hands and allowing the tears to fall. Panic crashed over her followed quickly by worry and fear. 

Maybe her suspicions were  _ right _ , maybe Ron was seeing someone else. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author of this story accepts reviews/comments of people who simply enjoy their work, of course. But they are also happy to read and consider a thoughtful review of the work, even if it includes constructive criticism.


	5. Chapter 5

**_March 1999_ **

“Draco, it's good to see you back here again.” 

Draco carefully lowered himself to sit on the edge of the dark brown leather chair seated directly across from his mind healer. He rubbed his sweating palms against the roughness of his trousers, desperately trying to distract himself from the panic attack he had just before arriving in her waiting room. 

For roughly two months, he had been seeing Eleanor Jones twice a week, every week. She came highly recommended to his mother by her healers at St. Mungo’s following her hospitalization there. It took three months of listening to his mother rave about the mind healer and seeing the improvement in his mum before Draco decided he would give her a shot. 

She was a lovely person, but more often than not he would become frustrated with her during his sessions and had yet to have the breakthrough his mother was certain would happen. Healers in past had told him that prolonged use of occlumency tended to make it more difficult to hide one’s emotions, on top of the trauma that he had faced as a child from his father, and extended time exposed to the Cruciatus, it always left him wondering if he was truly too far gone to be normal.

The gentle sound of her voice pulled him from his mind, “Draco? Tell me what has been plaguing you this week. I can see in your shoulders that you are carrying a great weight.” 

He stared at the floor between his feet for a few seconds, trying desperately to form a response. Silence filled the air around them as Eleanor waited for Draco to respond, always giving him however long he needed to formulate his thoughts. “Just—I don’t… I don’t know.” 

He felt the flutters of thought flitting about his mind in a million different directions, not sticking around long enough to coalesce into something tangible, something he could grasp to guide himself out of the pit of despair he would inevitably fall into. Sleep frequently evaded him when his mind was like this—jagged and disjointed like a cracked mirror—and his reliance on calming draughts were becoming too common for his own comfort. 

“That’s alright,” He heard the squeak of the leather as she moved and the gentle thunk of her notebook on the coffee table between them as he stared at the space between his shoes. “Let’s just focus on our breathing. Slowly, in through your nose for six, ready? One, two, three, four, five, six. Now hold it for me, just another few seconds here, and blow it out through your mouth.” 

He blew the breath out through pursed lips as she had taught him at their first appointment. 

“Good. Now again, in through your nose,” Eleanor paused as he inhaled, counting the seconds in his own head, “Hold it. Now out through your mouth. Good, shall we do it again?” 

He shook his head as he let out the breath, his train of thought slowing to a more logical and manageable speed, the cracks in the mirror mending with the ticked seconds. “No, that’s better, thank you.” His anxiety began to ebb, the pounding in his chest and the tightness in his lungs dissipating slowly.

“Good, now what happened before you entered the waiting room today.” He was no longer surprised by her perceptiveness, always seeming to know what had happened before he told her. 

“I—I walked past the drawing-room... at—at the manor.” 

“Alright, how did that feel to you? What were you thinking of as you walked by?”

He tried to focus on the emotions that flooded him earlier. He remembered stumbling by the drawing-room absentmindedly, deep in throes of another panic attack, but all he could feel was a deep sense of cold settling into his limbs as he imagined the drawing-room and the unsettling fear that crept into his bones the moment his father’s visage imposed itself upon his mind. “Not good,” 

He swallowed harshly, “It felt like my father would come out and strangle me.” It felt hard to breathe, each inhale more shallow than the one before it as his heart began to beat furiously in his chest.

Eleanor stretched across the table between them and placed a gentle hand over his, the warmth of her hand against the cold of his soothed the overwhelming anxiety that bubbled inside him. The simple gesture allowed him time to process and respond to her words.

“Now Draco, you know this is not possible right? He is imprisoned in a highly secure location and will remain there until his inevitable death. He will not be able to return.”

“I understand it from a logical perspective, but my mind reverts to that sometimes. I think knowing that he is finally dead will help.” 

He despised the way she left pregnant pauses between them, knowing that he hated the silence and that he would inevitably fill it with something he regretted saying at that moment. 

He avoided eye contact with her, eyes falling to the swell of his knuckles and signet ring. “I think I should attend the executions.” 

The sound of her quill scratching against parchment always set his nerves alight and he winced when he heard the flurry of the nib across the page.

“May I ask why?”

“I think seeing him lying cold and dead on the floor is the only way I will be able to move past the visions of him torturing me every time I enter my home.” The mention of his father caused images to bloom behind his eyes: the crack of his cane as it hit bare flesh, the flash of a curse in his periphery, blood pooling from a cut later healed. 

“Have you thought of moving?” 

“No.” His response was quick and curt.

“May I ask why?”

He huffed in frustration doing little to hide the irritation in his voice. “We just haven’t.” 

He and Healer Jones had discussed this topic countless times over the past two months, and every time it ended with him yelling about something inconsequential or insignificant without actually ever solving why he felt he couldn’t leave his ancestral home. 

“What about refurbishing the Manor? Still, living on the grounds but demolishing it and starting over? It has to be difficult to live in a place where you were tortured for so many years, does it not?” 

Before she could even finish her thought, an unconscious need to protect his familial home slammed into place, gooseflesh erupting over his skin with the anger that rolled just beneath the surface. “It’s even more difficult to imagine living somewhere else without the protections of ancient familial and elvish magic embedded into the very foundations of my home.” His gaze flashed up to hers, locking contact for a second before he tore it away back to his hands. 

Another few heartbeats passed before she spoke again, “I sense that you are frustrated with me, why do you think that is?” 

“Because you are asking frustrating questions.” 

He watched as a small smile crept up at the corner of her mouth. “Why are they frustrating? Because you don’t know how to answer them?”

“Precisely. Now can we please move along?” He tapped the heel of his foot against the floor, wringing his hands, unable to sit still. 

“Do you promise to schedule an additional visit after the executions?” 

Draco paused and scanned the floor surrounding his feet, “I suppose so.” 

“Good, we will tackle those topics another day.” He let out a deep breath, relief flooding his mind over Eleanor’s desire to change topics. 

“Now, tell me about Hermione.” 

His irritation returned in full force, “Why?” 

“Because Draco, I’m here to help you learn how to cope with your feelings about everything that troubles you, and help you move on and heal. It is unhealthy to hold onto the negativity as you have been doing. You deserve to be happy.” 

Draco rolled his eyes, resting back against the chair, one arm over the back, his left leg crossing and resting atop his right knee. “You’ve been speaking to my mother about me, haven’t you?” 

“You know I can’t discuss the specifics of your mother’s sessions with you.” 

Draco diverted eye contact, changing the subject back to Hermione, from his mother. Why must she poke and prod at him so? He supposed she must be an excellent mind healer if she prompted him to feel as many things as he did in a typical visit with her, frustrating or not. Still, this particular topic was not something he was ready to explore quite yet. “Hermione chose to move on with her life, without me. End of story. Next topic.” 

“How do you know this?” 

Anger and irritation bubbled to the surface, taking control before he could think through his response, words flying from his mouth faster than he could control them. “You bloody well know! I wrote her—multiple times, at that— and she _ ignored  _ me. She and Weasley seemed like they were nice and cosy, both after the war  _ and _ at my trial. If that is what she wants, then that is what she deserves. She doesn’t want me, no matter how badly I want her!” Draco clasped a hand over his mouth, surprised at his own admission. His feelings were typically kept wrapped tightly within the shields of his occlumency, but after spending most of his life shielding his mind, every so often he was prone to outbursts that seeped through the cracks in his carefully maintained shields. 

“There is a part of you wanting her to be happy, no matter what that takes, but there is also a larger part that wants her for your own, am I wrong?” 

He would never understand why she asked questions she already knew the answer to and with a defeated sigh, gave the answer she wanted to hear, “No.” 

“Okay, so why is it that you think that she deserves better than you? Why not find her and profess your feelings for her. Don’t you think it would provide you with the same type of closure as it will provide you as seeing your father?” 

“I don’t know!” he shouted, his mind whirling with truths he wasn’t ready to face. Of course, it would help provide closure, but to face her inevitable rejection was something he didn’t think his heart could stand. 

“Tell me what makes this difficult for you, Draco.” 

The solemn words flew from his mouth, little birds released from their cage, soaring higher and higher until he was breathless. “Do you know what it feels like to be in love with a witch from nearly the first moment in which you’ve set your eyes on her? To be hopelessly and disgustingly head-over-heels for another person your family will despise? To push back against it, to fight it and tear your soul in two or expulsion from your family simply because of who you love? And now, that the barriers have been removed, I circle back to the fact that it was my lineage, my family who caused her undue stress and trauma. How can I expect  _ her _ to love  _ me _ , to choose  _ me _ , to step into  _ my _ home willingly and be present with  _ me _ when  _ my _ family subjected her to unimaginable horrors? Where I stood idle and did nothing to prevent it.” 

“How do you know she feels that way?” The calm almost serene tone of the healer’s voice did nothing to ease the pressure of the cracks in his mind, emotions seeping through the carefully erected walls he’d built to keep them contained. 

“She chose Weasley.” The image of Hermione tucked against Weasley during his trial bloomed behind eyes before he pushed the image away. 

“Did she know that you were a choice?” 

He crumbled, the sole of his shoe cracking against the ground as his leg fell from where it had been crossed. His elbows crashed against his knees and he buried his face in his hands. 

“Why the silence, Draco? Did ever you tell her that you had romantic feelings for her?”

“No.” The word was strangled, muffled behind his hands, as the guilt that he had harboured for months over pushing Hermione into Weasley’s arms came rushing to the surface, desperate to break free. 

“Tell me, how do you know that’s what she wants?” 

Anger flared to life in his chest and he was on his feet in an instant. “Who would want to be with a piece of Death Eater shite like me?” His hand collided with his chest, the sound ringing throughout the room. “I feel so close on edge some days that I'm going to shatter, fly apart. Maybe I do deserve Azkaban or death like my father. Irredeemable, no matter what I've done.”

His chest heaved with every breath he forced himself to take, “The only control I have over my life is my familial home, my inherited business, and my mother. I am unemployable because of this godforsaken mark on my arm,” He ripped up the sleeve of his shirt to show the fading mark, the button at the cuff flying into the corner of the room. “And now I have nothing—no friends, no family, save for my mother, and no witch. The only thing I have is my freedom and useless Outstanding N.E.W.T. scores which further remind me of my study partner who orchestrated my freedom. Without her, I would be in a dirty cell on that godforsaken rock they call Azkaban rotting because I’m a bloody coward. I can’t have her and I never will. Merlin knows I don’t deserve her kindness, let alone her love.” 

The mind healer watched him carefully, quill scratching over the parchment as his breathing slowed and his body grew heavy. 

“Feel better?” she asked, the quill dipping itself in ink before continuing to write. 

He sat forcefully down in the chair, “Why are you so bloody infuriating?” 

“You don’t actually think that you are just frustrated that I push you to think past the point where you are comfortable, past the point where you like to stop and pity yourself. This is the kind of breakthrough I have been trying to get with you from week one. It only took me seven weeks to get through to you. Bravo, I am impressed.” 

He couldn’t deny the relief he felt at admitting everything he had been holding back, whether unconsciously or not. He felt tired, eyes heavy but still more at ease than he’d felt in weeks. “Now what?” 

“Don’t you feel better? Like a weight has been lifted from your shoulders, now that those harboured feelings are out in the open?” 

He gave a slight nod of confirmation despite his sense of self-preservation urging him to keep his feelings close for fear that they might, one day, be used against him. 

“Great, let’s continue.” 

* * *

After many hours of delicate discussion turned impassioned bickering with his mother and the house-elves, they finally agreed that it was time to update the manor, to make it a home. 

Draco hoped that when he reached out to his distant friends that they didn’t shun him for how he acted following the war—withdrawing from social activities, removing himself from the public eye, and, if he was being quite honest, becoming something of a hermit. 

Blaise and Theo had been his best mates since fourth-year when Vince and Greg became too interested in eating and using their bulk to intimidate others and less interested in girls and quidditch. 

Because of their similar upbringing (read: terrible childhoods at the hands of abusive fathers), Theo and Draco shared a close bond. Luckily for Theo, his father “disappeared” shortly before Draco was marked and thus was able to dodge the mark, unlike Draco. Having taken his N.E.W.T.s early and with the aid of a few family connections, Theo secured employment in the DMLE, working as a prosecutor. 

Where Theo was studious in his ambitions, Blaise’s primary ambition in life seemed to be to bed a witch—or wizard, he wasn’t picky—in every city he visited.. His father died when he was very young and his mother focused on skipping from husband to husband, all of whom mysteriously died in some way or another, leaving Blaise to his own devices. He enjoyed the life of a teenager without rules or boundaries and surprisingly used his relative freedom for good. He quickly finished an Architecture Mastery that incorporated both Magical and Muggle practices, making him very popular among the wealthy witches and wizards, especially those abroad. 

Pansy surprised everyone when she emerged from the fires of war with a shiny diamond from the Nott Vaults adorning her finger, since no one had really even known she and Theo were seeing one another. It was even more surprising when she didn’t simply bask upon the piles of gold in said vaults and instead, became an accomplished interior designer. Her impeccable taste for colour matching and stylization made her one of the most sought after in the wizarding world, despite her young age. Her business became a household name, a measly three months into the venture, and now nearly a year after the war, her business was thriving and she was set to open a storefront in Diagon Alley next month. 

Given their relative success compared to his rather stagnant existence, Draco was pleasantly surprised when he received two owls enthusiastically affirming their presence for dinner. 

There was something about catching up with his friends that soothed his soul in a way that therapy and months of solitude hadn’t managed to do. He’d missed them more than he’d realized and it was like a balm to a wound seeing Pansy and Theo desperately in love and hearing stories about some of Blaise’s conquests from abroad. Draco laughed and smiled more than he had in months in the course of a few hours. 

“So Draco, tell us, how is your love life now?” Pansy asked innocently, swirling a dark red wine around the bell of the glass, and earning a wolf whistle from both Theo and Blaise. 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Nonexistent, Pans.” 

She grinned at him, “What a load of shite. It’s all anyone can talk about”—Pansy wrinkled her nose—”Draco Malfoy, Slytherin Sex-God, bedding witches left and right.” 

Theo nuzzled closer to Pansy, leaning close and licking a hot stripe just beneath her ear. “No, love that’s me they are referring to.” 

Tandem groans from Draco and Blaise filled the room, the latter swallowing a large gulp of whisky before grabbing the bottle and pouring another measure while the former gagged behind a closed fist. “Please refrain from doing that again, lest you want to see the contents of my stomach on the rug.” 

Pansy turned her head and kissed Theo on the cheek before turning her head back to Draco. “Come on, Draco. Tell us.” 

He held his hands up. “Seriously, I haven’t done anything with anyone since long before the end of the war. Remember what I said about being emotionally withdrawn, tortured, Dark Mark? Any of that ring a bell?” 

“There has to be at least someone you have your eye on?” Blaise wiggled his eyebrows, topping off Draco’s glass of whisky. 

Before he could respond to affirm once more that no he hadn’t been shagging anyone or even attracted to anyone, Pansy waved her hands, a delighted twinkle in her violet eyes. “Oh! What about Granger, you were always infatuated with her during school.” 

He didn’t even have time to debate in his mind whether or not he should tell them about his feelings for Hermione before the denial flew out of his mouth. “What? I was not infatuated with Granger?” 

Theo snorted, shaking his head and twirling a lock of Pansy’s dark hair around his finger. “Please, even a blind man could see how you longed for her.” 

“I….” Draco swallowed loudly. It had to come out sooner than later. In for a knut, in for a galleon. “You noticed that?” 

“Everyone noticed it mate, it’s fine. We knew you would never act on it because of your father. But what about now, why don’t you try things with her?” Blaise suggested before taking a sip of his drink in quite possibly the least innocent way possible. 

Theo sighed, leaning his head back against the sofa and tucking Pansy closer to his side, “Blaise, you spend too much time bedding random witches, and not enough time reading the Daily Prophet. She and Weasley are attached at the hip. Inseparable—or at least, that’s what Skeeter says.”

Draco groaned, his hand rubbing over his face. The last thing he wanted to do was think about Granger and Weasely being head-over-heels for one another when she hadn’t so much as returned a single one of his owls. He thought himself ridiculous, pining over a woman who clearly wasn’t interested, but moving on was proving difficult. “Can we please discuss the actual reason why I gathered you here today?” 

The look in her eyes showed that Pansy clearly wanted to push Draco into some kind of confession, but Theo kissed her before she could get the words out, leaving Blaise to say, “Carry on, Draco.” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Mother and I want to remodel the manor, every dark and dismal piece of artwork, furniture, or moulding needs to go. We want a completely clean slate and a fresh start.” 

Pansy broke away from Theo, her eyes alighting with what could only be infinite possibilities and sat up on the edge of the sofa, despite Theo’s pout. “You know how I thrive on details, Draco. Keep talking.” 

Draco chuckled, sweeping his arm in a wide gesture around the dark sitting room. “Every piece of ghastly wallpaper, every squeaky floorboard, every ounce of dark paint, gone.” 

Pansy squirmed in her seat, body thrumming with anticipation. “Yes! Okay, remind me, how many bedrooms?” 

Draco counted on his fingers, “I think fifteen. Though many of them have yet to be examined by curse breakers. A contingent from Gringotts is set to arrive tomorrow to begin working on portrait removal and ensuring there is no lingering dark magic throughout the house.” 

Blaise cut in, his expression leaving little doubt that he was as excited as Pansy about the project. “So, fifteen bedrooms? All on the second floor?” 

Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly before he nodded. “Yes, and almost every bedroom has its own en-suite.” 

“Plus the ballroom has four of its own bathrooms?” Pansy’s grin was bordering on feral.

Draco took a long pull of his whisky before meeting Pansy’s eyes. “Yes, two on the first floor, two on the second floor.” 

He glanced thoughtfully between his friends, considering the other renovations that would need to be complete before continuing. “We were thinking that we don’t really use the conservatory any longer, it’s rather pointless since we have such an extensive garden space. Mother suggested that we make it similar to the west wing, except the ground floor becomes a study or billiards room of sorts and the entire second floor becomes my suite. Therefore, she will have her wing, and I will have mine.” 

It was easy to see when the wheels began turning in Blaise’s mind, like watching visions come alive behind his dark eyes. 

“We can go look if you like,” Draco said, “I would also like to perhaps combine some of the bedrooms upstairs on my new wing so they are larger. I don’t think it hurts to consider the possibility of children and as I’m sure you well know, they need space to learn and play in addition to sleep. I also think opening up the ground floor so it is more open and airy would be a good idea.” 

Theo pouted as his attempts to lure Pansy back against him were thwarted when she nearly lept off of the sofa. Draco felt a sense of calm wash over him, it was nice to have a distraction, to be in the company of his friends once more. 

Blaise rolled up the sleeves on his shirt, and conjured a notebook and quill from a trinket on the side table, “Let’s take a tour, I’ll take measurements and draw up a blueprint with proposed changes and you let me know what you like or don’t.”

Draco set his half-full glass of whisky aside and stood, drawing a deep breath before flicking his wand towards the doors of the lounge, the dark wood effortlessly sliding open. “Wonderful, let’s take a walk.” 


	6. Chapter 6

**_March 1999_ **

In the year following the end of the war, the Ministry had spent roughly nine months capturing, sentencing, and preparing those Death Eaters who were unequivocally members of the Dark Lord’s inner circle for the Death Sentence. Other less volatile members of the Dark Lord’s regime were sentenced to anything from a measly fine for the most inoffensive crimes to years in Azkaban. There was a relief that came in watching the Dementor rip the soul of his father from its body, but Draco’s nerves were raw simply from seeing him again. 

A one-way mirror was utilized by families and victims of those sentenced to watch the process, though few observed. Draco stood stoically behind the mirror, dressed sharply in crisp semi-formal robes with twin crests held together by a delicate chain positioned at the collar to mark him as the head of the family. While he doubted his father knew he was watching, just before the Dementor was released into the small cell, his father met his eyes and grinned, something animalistic and feral that turned Draco’s stomach. But still, he watched until Lucius Malfoy took his final breath. 

On the slow walk from the holding cell to the network of Floo grates within the Ministry of Magic, the things that he had said in his last appointment with Healer Jones were pulled to the forefront of his mind. He still felt like a coward, never daring to tell Hermione how he felt and still feeling as though he wasn’t good enough for her—not that he ever would be, but perhaps who he was becoming could be enough. 

It took him months to even be able to admit to himself that he was attracted to her, and after they had become friends it had taken precious few days for him to be as attracted to her mind as he was to her body. 

How could he have let the opportunity to remind her of her beauty, slip through his fingers?

It was clear to him now that there were  _ feelings _ there, the more he examined his memories. It was evident in the way she blushed when he teased her or when they shared secret glances. He should have acted on it, made his feelings known, but now she was happy with Weasley and he probably would never get the chance. 

He stepped into the Floo grate and found himself standing at the bar at the Black Tavern, a pub down the alley from the Leaky, ordering a firewhisky before he could think better of it. 

After two rounds, he felt better. 

He mindlessly scanned the bar, silently hoping that Hermione would be somewhere among the other patrons. At the very least, Draco would have liked to speak with her or even just see her to help ease the guilt he felt over not professing his feelings.

His heart skipped a beat when he caught sight of incomparable red hair obscuring someone with brown curls in the corner. Weasley had a witch pinned up against the wall, her leg hiked around his waist, hips gyrating in a way that left little to the imagination. His heart dropped into his stomach, thick pungent jealousy rising up like bile and causing his hands to shake. That could have been him, so desperately in love with his partner that they had to soothe an itch in public, unable to wait until they returned home and with little care to what others might think. 

His mother would be appalled if she knew the fantasies that ran through his mind. Tearing his vision away from the couple in the corner, Draco finished the remaining whisky in his glass and paid his tab.

Against his better judgement just before he exited the dark tavern, he chanced one last glance over to the corner where Weasley and Granger were locked in an impassioned embrace. Anger seared his throat when he realized the witch attached to Weasley in more ways than one was most definitely  _ not _ Hermione, but rather Lavender Brown, who had evidently coloured her blond curls to a mousy shade of brown that, now that he could think clearly, looked nothing like Hermione’s. 

Draco’s feet carried him forward toward the secluded corner but before he approached Weasley, he stopped. The voice of his mind healer sounded in the back of his mind, her voice quiet and sharp.  _ Always count to five before reacting to a situation. If you still feel the same, ask yourself, ‘is my reaction rational and productive?’ If so continue, if not, remove yourself and channel your energy elsewhere.  _

He let the air fill his lungs, exhaling on a count of five and he turned away from the corner. __

She was right, it would do no good to pull Weasley off of Brown right now and beat him to a bloody pulp. The only thing it would do is cause a scene and likely result in a night in a holding cell in the bowels of the Ministry for assault on an Auror. 

Instead, he abandoned his path towards the embraced couple and shoved open the door to leave, promptly disapparating home. 

* * *

The feeling of true, unadulterated happiness had been remiss from his life for as long as he could remember. However, the day construction began on his familial home, the elation he felt was incomparable to nearly anything he had felt within the past several years. Watching the team of curse breakers from Gringotts leave with the last of the dark artefacts and the demolition of rooms in which his father previously had held secret meetings and side dalliances, filled Draco with a joy that was largely unexplainable. 

It was entirely possible that Healer Jones was onto something. Seeing the remnants of his former life be torn to shambles was therapeutic in and of itself and Draco felt great pride at seeing changes being made to his home. 

Despite all the positive changes that were occurring in his home and personal life, Draco still felt uneasy about what he had witnessed at the Leaky Cauldron two weeks prior. 

For a moment, he thought maybe Hermione had come to her senses and left the git, but just two days later they were featured on the front page of the  _ Daily Prophet _ . The photo showed Weasley placing a kiss against Hermione’s forehead and her looking anything but uncomfortable. 

He needed to speak with her. He desperately wanted to see her so he could tell her how much she meant to him and still  _ does _ mean to him. Not a day passed where Draco didn’t think of her and the memory of Weasley and Brown festered in his mind just as often. Even if his affections were unrequited, she  _ needed _ to know. They were friends first, after all, and what sort of friend would he be if he didn’t relay her boyfriend’s indiscretions. Hermione deserved better than a lazy arse who apparently had a penchant for infidelity. 

Conjuring a quill and sheaf of parchment, Draco crumpled no less than six drafts before he was able to write something simple enough that wouldn’t give anything away if Weasley managed to intercept her mail. 

_ Hermione,  _

_ I hope this letter finds you well. I know in my last letter, I said that I would leave you be, but I recently stumbled across something that I would like to speak with you about.  _

_ Please meet me at the cafe with the blue awning down the street from the visitor’s entrance to the Ministry Monday at half-eight in the morning.  _

_ I hope to see you there.  _

_ Regards,  _

_ DLM _

He attached the letter to the leg of his owl and sent it off with instructions to return without a reply. Draco ran his fingers through his perfectly coiffed hair, tugging at the strands, as he thought about what he would say or do, or if she would even show. 

A smile curved over his lips as his attention was drawn away from precarious thoughts by the stack of blueprints in the corner. 

Blaise had drawn up blueprints of the renovations to be completed with impressive speed. After discussing the finalized plans with both Draco and his mother, Blaise agreed to push back any existing projects and make the Manor his sole priority until it was completed. With all hands on deck, it was estimated construction would finish within three weeks. 

Following the completion of the necessary renovations, Pansy would begin her portion of the project, though she had already begun sourcing materials. Draco never wanted to view paint samples and fabric swatches again. His mother, however, seemed to delight in the task that came with redecorating even if he couldn’t fathom the difference between ecru and something as pedestrian as beige. Following some less-than-subtle persuasive tactics on Pansy’s part, Draco agreed to allow the finished Manor to be highlighted in a column in _ Wizarding Home and Gardens _ as part of the Parkinson brand’s much larger feature. In four weeks time, a professional photography team would arrive to take photos of the finished construction and design, so both Pansy and Blaise could proudly showcase the work they had put forth in their respective offices.

“You are actually smiling, my Dragon,” Narcissa noted as Draco descended the stairs into the now-empty foyer of their home. 

Though things were better for them in the months after their freedom as granted by the Wizengamot, and markedly improved following his father’s well-deserved execution, there were still more moments of sadness and struggle for both Draco and his mother. 

Draco draped his arm around his mother’s shoulder, pulling her into a side hug. “I feel better, Mum. Don’t you?” 

Narcissa, being a head shorter than Draco, wrapped her arm around his side, squeezing him hard. “More than you know, Draco. This place has been dark and gloomy for years, it's about time we make it something we can be proud of, somewhere where we can build new memories that are filled with joy.” 

She tilted her head, drawing his gaze down and lifted a hand, fingers brushing against his cheek. I love you, my son.” 

He leaned into the simple comfort and smiled. “I love you too, Mum.”

The floo roared to life behind them, light from the bright green flames reflecting off of the bare walls. Draco and Narcissa turned to find Pansy and Theo siphoning soot from their robes. 

Theo stepped forward into the large open space, bits of dust and soot circling him in the light streaming in from the windows. “Merlin! This place is going to look so different. Look at how much brighter it is in here just knocking down a few walls!” 

Pansy smiled, leather t-strap heels clicking against the hardwood as she moved further into the room, Theo following closely behind. She turned, surveying the empty space, a keen glint in her eye. “I can’t wait to see how everything looks at the end. It’s going to be so wonderful here!” 

Draco smiled at his friends, letting his mother go and stepping forward toward the couple. “Thank you, Pansy, I know you had a multitude of commitments but we appreciate you clearing your schedule to make this happen for us more than you know.” 

Pansy pulled away from Theo and slotted herself into Draco’s arms, murmuring into his chest, “Family comes first, Draco. After all we’ve been through, I know how much you and Narcissa need this. It’s time to move on, darling.” Pansy pulled back and smiled up at him before rising to her toes and kissing his cheek. “It’s worth every knut of pushing back other commitments to help one of my best friends.” 

Draco’s heart surged.

Theo stood sentinel at Pansy’s back, his hand resting on Draco’s shoulder. “You always have us if you need us.” 

Blaise’s voice carried down from somewhere on the second floor, the sharp tenor echoing through the now-empty space. “Enough sappy shite! Who’s cooking me dinner? I’m starved. The owner of the house on this job I am on is a right tosser and thinks I don’t need three meals a day and is working me to the bone.” 

Narcissa hid her laugh behind a delicate hand even as Draco chuckled openly, his arms tightening around Pansy who snickered against his chest. Theo gestured rudely towards where Blaise’s head peeked out just over the bannister on the second floor. 

“Let’s go out, my treat,” Draco said, stepping away from Pansy who immediately leaned back against her fiance. Narcissa pressed a kiss to Draco’s cheek before excusing herself, stepping away from the group of young people and leaving them to enjoy whatever the night might hold. 

Pansy’s eyes lit up, always one for experiencing the finer things in life. “I’ve heard lovely things about that new luxury restaurant in Diagon.” 

Theo, ever the pragmatist, wrinkled his nose. “Oh, the one that has a 20 galleon cover fee and each plate is no less than 100?” 

“That’s the one,” Blaise called as he descended the stairs. 

Draco’s brow arched finely as his eyes followed Blaise, a smirk rising to his lips. “Who’s a tosser now?”

“You can afford it, I’ve seen your bank accounts.” Blaise challenged, with a point of his finger toward Draco. 

Draco crossed his arms over his chest, “Seems to me that the Zabini Enterprises account is quite plush as well.” 

“You’re not wrong.”

“Prat,” Draco laughed, shaking his head. 

“You love me though.” 

“Let’s go feed you.”

Despite the steep entry fee and price per plate, dinner was a pleasant affair. Conversation flowed easily between the four friends as if Draco hadn’t secluded himself for an extended period of time. 

Theo’s elbows rested against the white tablecloth as he leaned forward, fingers steepled. “ I wanted to talk to you about something, Draco. There is a position coming available in my department, and the Director wants it filled immediately.” 

Draco sighed, eyes flicking between Theo and the glass of wine in his hand. “Theo, I know nothing about how to be a prosecutor.” 

“That’s the thing, you don’t need to know anything about it. It's a consultant position of sorts,” Theo picked up his glass and gestured widely before lifting the glass to his lips and letting the dark wine flow over his tongue. 

Theo set his glass down on the table before Draco could protest again and began counting off all of the duties and apparent pros of the position on his fingers. “You essentially glance over all the cases that grace the desks of the various departments of the Ministry. You read the documents on the case, and determine whether the Ministry should take it on or not. If they should, you get to pair it with a prosecutor based on the severity of the case and move on to the next one. No court time, no dealing with the DMLE, no dealing with the outside public. Your assistant accepts all the cases, sets the documents in order in a file and brings it to you, you get a private corner office, with a killer view. All your mail and memos are protected with enchantments to keep you from harm.” 

“And,” Theo dragged out the first syllable dramatically, holding up one finger. “You earn a paycheck, free of scandal and dodgy activities. One that would continue to keep those Malfoy Incorporated accounts full.” 

Theo sat back against the chair, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes firm and serious. “I think it will be good for you. I won’t take no for an answer.” 

The thought of working in the Ministry both excited Draco and made him anxious. Working for the Wizarding Government as a former Death Eater with the reputation that was implied with the Malfoy name could be a point of contention. From the way Theo described it, he was well protected and working within one of the most secure departments. It certainly wouldn’t harm matters to have an honest paycheck that would allow him to continue to build positive associations with the Malfoy name and support his mother in the process. It sounded too good to be true. 

“What’s the catch, Theodore?” 

“Sweet Circe, no trust, using my full name.” Theo placed a hand against his chest in mock hurt. “You have to work under me, but I see that as a perk”—he winked— “since around the time you start, I get my promotion to Head Prosecutor of the department, you know family connections and all.” Pansy, who evidently hadn’t been informed of this development, squealed and possessively grabbed onto Theo’s collar and pulled him in for a kiss, making Theo preen when she finally let him go. The sight of his friends so unabashedly in love made Draco go a bit green around the gills. 

“I’ll even have them connect your Floo to your home, so that way you don’t have to be bothered walking through the Atrium.” 

Draco nodded, doing his best to keep his face carefully neutral as thoughts sped through his mind as to whether or not he would even be considered for such a position. 

Theo pressed, fingers trailing over Pansy’s arm as she leaned against him. “Draco, it really is a great opportunity. I can see the wheels turning in your swotty head, and I’ve been given express permission to offer you this position. If you agree, we can get you in front of the Head of DMLE to sign your contract first thing Monday morning. Training to follow and be completed by Friday.” 

Pansy looked toward Draco with a hopeful smile curving over her lips. “It sounds like a great opportunity, Draco. I know you’re worried, but the DMLE is really the safest department in the Ministry.” She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. 

Thoughts whirled through his mind, but two were largely prominent—stability and safety. He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly before leaving his gaze on Theo, giving Pansy’s hand a light squeeze. “What time do we meet on Monday? And how do I negotiate my time off schedule?” 

Theo chuckled, “No time off for the first three months, but after that, as long as you don’t have cases on your desk, I don’t give a rats arse when you’re in the office.” 

Theo slipped out of the booth and offered Draco his hand. Draco rose from his seat but instead, pulled Theo into a hug. “Thanks, mate. It means a lot that you are doing this for me.” 

“You’re our best mate, Draco. That’s what friends do,” Theo replied, smacking him hard on the back. 

Blaise scowled, tipping a large pour of amber liquid back into his mouth. “So sweet, I might vomit. Can we discuss fun things now, like did you see who graced the cover of Quidditch Weekly this week? Katie Bell? My my has she grown in all the right places.”

* * *

  
  


**_JUNE 1999_ **

The only sound that could be heard in Hermione’s Ministry appointed cubicle was the fervent scratching of her quill on the parchment as she was completing the practice scenarios that Master Abbott had given her to work through during the weekly team meeting. 

“Yes!” The word flew loudly from her lips in an enthusiastic squeal as the equation arrived at the expected result. She immediately covered her mouth as several shushing sounds rang out over the floor from her colleagues.

Hermione had been studying for her Arithmancy Mastery under the Mistress Cynthia Abbott, Head of the Department of Arithmancy within the Ministry of Magic, which was nestled snugly in the opposite wing of the DMLE, for about six months now. She was roughly one-quarter of the way through her two-year program. 

Arithmancy had grown to become one of Hermione’s favourite subjects from Hogwarts. Not just because it came easy for her, but the application of scientific methods in order to predict events and map outcomes was something she found thrilling. For Hermione, solving an arithmancy equation was akin to apprehending a Death Eater for Harry, thrilling, comforting and most definitely satisfying. There was nothing that brought her joy like her profession and while she would always have a soft spot for creature rights, she knew that growth and success were still very stunted in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. 

As she packed her satchel and desk for the weekend in order to begin her trek back to Grimmauld for the night, the reality of her home life set in. While she was not necessarily unhappy with Ronald, things between them had become strained since the night he returned from the pub utterly pissed. The awkward tension that had built between them was becoming unbearable, and the only ways Hermione could think to combat it was either to break up with Ronald, or give him what he wanted—sex. 

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to have sex—she did—but insecurities surrounding her lack of practical knowledge seemed to be holding her back. 

Over the past two months, she thoroughly researched the logistics of intimacy—positions, satisfaction, orgasms, anatomy. But despite having a firm knowledge base of what was required, she didn’t have the practical application and couldn’t very well proposition a man off the street with whom to practice. 

Well, she could… but the mere thought of it made her nose wrinkle, the thought that her first time would be with a stranger—no, she wanted it to be with someone familiar, that much she had determined, even if she was still hesitant to give into Ron’s increasingly consistent attempts to persuade her. 

As she walked home, she pondered all the scenarios in her head. If she continued to deny him, he would probably grow bored with her and find someone else to keep him busy. If she did give him what he wanted, then maybe their relationship would get better for a while, but if she was truly going to be with this man for the rest of her life like they had talked about, ‘getting it over with’ was a mentality not conducive to a happy marriage. At nineteen years old, her life should be full of carefree experiences—girls nights, parties, travelling and generally enjoying her life—not catering to the sexual whims of her boyfriend when she wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of it. 

She would never understand why the thought of sexual intimacy with Ron didn’t excite her. They had been together since the war, nearly a year now, but the signals of arousal the books in the library discussed were never present, and she surely never felt an overwhelming desire to kiss him. He was still one of her best friends and while she enjoyed spending time with him, she was uncertain about their future together but was also uncertain if breaking it off was the right thing to do. She’d heard countless stories of romantic love growing between friends and partners, if only she’d give it a little more time… or perhaps a little more  _ effort _ . 

Hermione shook her head, the light wind tousling her curls as she turned the corner and she tugged her satchel closer to her body. 

She must be overthinking things. If she actually participated in sexual intimacy with Ron, surely her feelings regarding him would shortly follow. She resolved to put aside her reservations and move forward with the plan that didn’t leave her with the possibility that Ron would no longer want to be part of her life. 

She beat both Harry and Ron home from work and immediately went upstairs to shower. Using beauty charms for hair removal, makeup, and taming her frizzy curls helped boost her confidence. She added a touch of extra lip gloss and shimmied into the new lacy burgundy lingerie she purchased earlier in the week in anticipation of the occasion. 

Hermione looked over herself in the mirror, her fingers drifting over her curse scar she had received from Dolohov in her fifth year and the other scars that she obtained during their time on the run. Insecurity flooded her—how could Ronald possibly think her desirable with so many scars marring her skin? The whisper of a glamour charm floating over her, obscuring the scar cutting across her chest. Watching it disappear beneath the glamour made her feel uneasy as she had grown used to seeing it as simply a part of herself over the years. She closed her eyes and opened them to view the entirety of her form. The confidence she felt at seeing lace wrapped around her body and make-up accentuating the soft curves of her face made her feel almost ready to move her relationship to the next level—something she hoped Ron would appreciate and help her move forward.

* * *

The next day, Hermione met Ginny for lunch, still feeling unsettled and sore from her first  _ experience _ with Ron. She was barely paying attention to the things that Ginny was saying, pushing her appetizer around on her plate, as moments from the night before flashed through her mind. 

The way his sweaty hands pawed at her skin made her nose wrinkle. The fumbling between the two of them made her feel wholly inadequate and unsure of where to put her hands, let alone how to make the experience better. 

But Gods, was she glad it was over. 

The server placed their entrees in front of them, the salad she had ordered now looking less than appetizing. Her stomach seemed to reject nearly everything she tried to eat with her nerves still somewhat fraught.

“Gin? Can I ask you something?” Hermione speared a piece of lettuce on her fork, even if the slight crunch made her stomach roil.

Ginny sliced her sandwich in half and then again in quarters, her eyes darting between Hermione and her knife skills so as not to cut her finger. “I knew you had something on your mind, you’ve been unusually quiet this whole time. What’s going on?” 

Hermione set down her fork at the edge of her plate, crisp lettuce taunting her. Clearing her throat, she leaned close to Ginny, keeping her voice low, “What was your first time like? Spare me the details about the person, I just want to know what it felt like for you.” 

Ginny sighed, setting down her sandwich and dabbing the corner of her mouth with her napkin before counting each point off on her fingers. “Well, quite frankly, it was disappointing. He was sweet and cute and all, but it was over quickly, a bit painful, and I didn’t get off at all.” 

A blush seared through Hermione’s cheeks at Ginny’s frankness, something she should have been used to by now but her best girl-friend never failed to surprise her. “You said a bit painful, how bad was it… really?” 

Ginny turned her head from side to side, checking to make certain no one was listening. “There was a sharp pinch and an uncomfortable stretch, but he gave me time to adjust and then it started to feel good. It gets better though, I promise. I’m assuming that is why you're asking?” 

Hermione nodded, new tears threatening to fall from her eyes as she covered her face with her hands in an attempt to obscure her feelings from her friend. “It just didn’t―” she floundered, the feeling of unease further setting in and making her feel ill. “I don’t know, I don’t have a standard to compare it to, but something just wasn’t right.” 

Ginny leaned further across the table and settled her hand on Hermione’s arm, her voice no higher than a whisper. “I recommend you get a toy. That way you figure out what you like, what feels good for you. You win because you get off, plus the thought of you using it by yourself tends to get them going, and maybe they ask to watch you and then mimic what you do. I swear, game-changer.” 

Heat flooded her cheeks. “Gin I―” 

“I know, I know, you couldn’t possibly,” Ginny smiled fondly, “but I am telling you, younger guys don’t have a clue what they’re doing. They  _ need _ guidance. Help them help you.” 

The thought of ordering a toy via owl-post or finding a shop to cater to that particular need made her feel nervous. Of course, she had managed to purchase lingerie without completely making a fool of herself, so perhaps she could find the courage within her to make a purchase of something that might help her. It wasn’t as if she had never touched herself before, but fingers compared with … male anatomy were two entirely different things. Perhaps, she simply needed practice. “I’ll think about it.” 

Hermione picked up her fork and took a bite of the slowly wilting lettuce as Ginny sat back in her chair, picking up her sandwich. “Good, now tell me about work.” 

Her entire face lit up at the thought of her job. “Work is wonderful. I couldn’t ask for a better department if I tried. Mistress Abbott is delightful and  _ so _ intelligent. I am excited to complete my Mastery and be able to work alongside her solving  _ real _ problems. It’s really been a breath of fresh air knowing that what I’m doing is actually helpful.” 

“I’m so glad you decided to go the Arithmancy route,” Ginny paused to swallow her bite, “I mean I know that you need more from a job than what Magical Creatures could provide.” 

Hermione smiled, “Thanks Gin, I appreciate it. And you’re absolutely right. I’m still invested in creature rights, but this new path has been utterly thrilling.” 

“Don’t thank me, thank Harry! He’s the one that got you the job, pulled his  _ Boy-Who-Lived  _ shite to help you out. It’s really all him, and I’m sure Ron had a little to do with it too. “ 

Hermione let out a small laugh but quickly sobered when images of the night she had spent with Ron filled her mind yet again.

Ginny reached out and placed a hand over Hermione’s, squeezing her fingers, “I know my brother’s an idiot that doesn’t know his way around a woman if his Auror credentials depended on it, but it gets better. I promise.” 

She drew a quick breath and nodded, forcing a smile over her lips. “I really hope you are right.” 

“If he doesn’t, I give you full permission to either kick him to the curb or become a crazy kneazle lady, carte blanche.” 

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of her surrounded by a dozen kneazles, “After what happened last night, being a single witch with a bunch of cats sounds like a great idea.” 

The bright glint in Ginny’s eyes gave Hermione pause as a devious smile spread over Ginny’s face.“Come on, let’s go to Witch Revolution.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Only the naughtiest store in Diagon.” Ginny winked at her across the table as she threw a few galleons down and pulled Hermione from her seat, their half-eaten lunches forgotten.

Well… at least she wouldn’t have to worry about owl-post or finding a shop on her own. “Where is it at? I’ve never seen it and I’ve been in Diagon thousands of times.” 

Ginny grinned, tugging her out of the restaurant. “See, they are very crafty, those witches who own it. You have to know exactly what you are looking for. Not just anyone can walk in and buy things.”


	7. Chapter 7

**WARNING: MENTIONS OF NON-CON AT THE END OF THE CHAPTER**

**_November 1999_ **

Hermione wandered through the drafty halls of Grimmauld Place, lost in her own thoughts. Concern splintered through her, leaving her nerve endings frayed over Ron’s increasing bouts of anger, aggravation over the smallest things, and general strange behavior. She didn’t have an answer for it. Merlin knew she was trying her best to limit some of her worst traits so it wouldn’t set him off and even though she gave as good as she got, she didn’t exactly fancy fighting with the man she was supposed to be blissfully happy with. Truth be told, sex had helped her little on that front, but still, she soldiered on trying to find the happiness everyone expected her to have at this point in her life. “When I tried to leave, he yanked me by the hair and said he would tie me to the bed if I tried to leave. I couldn’t even sleep that night, I was so terrified.” 

The war was over. She was dating one of her best friends. She had a lovely job that utterly thrilled and challenged her. So… why wasn’t she happy? 

As she crossed the threshold into the kitchen, moments from the night before flashed into her mind. His hands slipped below her nightshirt, creeping upward towards her breasts, but she stilled his hand, telling him she wasn’t in the mood. He reluctantly agreed, holding her as she fell asleep, but sometime later the movement of the bed woke her. He knelt, poised over her, her shirt lifted and sleep pants tugged down to reveal the curve of her stomach and the shadows of what lay beneath. In the dark she heard him grunt and a sinking feeling filled the pit of her stomach as she watched him stroke himself. Before she could stop him, his seed splashed against her leg soiling her pajamas and he laid back down beside her, tossing his arm over her waist as if he hadn’t done anything wrong. 

She opened a cabinet and pulled a glass down. Turning towards the sink, she noticed Harry reading the current edition of the Daily Prophet. On the front page, Draco Malfoy stood proudly, a smile on his face before her carefully hid his face from reporters as he turned and ducked into a nearby shop. 

“ _ FORMER DEATH EATER PRODIGY TURNED MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELOR? TURN TO PAGE THREE FOR MORE.”  _

She filled the glass at the sink and lifted the glass of water to her lips, allowing the cool liquid to soothe her anxiety over what happened the night before. “Anything interesting in there, Harry?” 

His eyes flicked up over the edge of the paper as she lowered herself into a chair. “Not really, I was honestly just looking for something to keep me busy until Gin gets here.” 

She lifted the glass once again, taking a slow pull from the glass as she stared off into space, silence lingering between them. “May I read when you’re done?” 

Harry folded the paper gently before nudging it across the table towards Hermione. “Here, wasn’t much interesting there anyway. Oh, but I guess Malfoy will be voted Most Eligible Bachelor this year.” He chucked to himself, “A bit surprising considering everything that happened during the war, but he seems to have turned himself around enough.” 

Hermione took the offered paper, humming noncommittally to Harry’s statement, trying not to make it obvious she was staring at the looping picture of Draco. It had been so rare to see him smile when they studied together in the library and watching him in the photograph made her stomach swoop in ways it hadn’t in years. 

“Speaking of Malfoy? Have you talked to him? I know he never sent you any owls after the trial and all that, but I just assumed maybe he needed time?” She missed the way Harry studied her face as her eyes remained trained on the paper. 

Hermione kept reading, trying hard to not make it seem like she was bothered by the fact that the person she was closest to during sixth year hadn’t reached out to her. “No, I haven’t. It’s probably for the best though,” she shrugged, attempting to brush it off. “I’m not sure we would know how to interact with each other outside of an educational setting in the midst of war. Seems a bit strange now, like a dream almost.” 

Before Harry could press the subject further, an owl swept into the kitchen and dropped the latest Quidditch Weekly in front of Harry on the table. His excitement was palpable as Harry opened the parchment cover, untied the ribbon and tore into the latest edition

Hermione’s eyes lingered over the photo of Draco, mid-laugh. He looked so healthy and at peace—a very stark contrast from his trial, where he appeared withdrawn and gaunt. She flipped to page three and began devouring the words, nerves fluttering at the unexpected glimpse into his life, no matter how small.

_ “Stepping out of Twilfitt and Tattings early Monday evening with his Mother, the incomparable Narcissa Black Malfoy, was none other than Draco Lucius Malfoy, the infamous Pureblood scion of the Malfoy family. Mr. Malfoy, reformed Death Eater, has recently made it clear that he will no longer stand for the staunch blood purity his family has previously championed and promptly provided a list of Muggleborn, Creature, and Magical Being friendly charities which he and his mother actively support.  _

_ An anonymous admirer entered him in the running for our Most Eligible Bachelor award for the year 2000 which according to the most recent poll numbers, he is set to win the coveted title by a landslide. Other notable contenders include, Quidditch Star Marcus Flint, Hogwarts’ Newest Professor of Herbology, Neville Longbottom and Magio-Architect extraordinaire and close friend of Mr. Malfoy, Blaise Zabini.  _

_ We reached out to Mr Malfoy’s publicist regarding a statement regarding his feeling this projected win but have yet to hear back. Never fret, dear readers, we here at the Daily Prophet will provide updates on this unfolding situation as they come.  _

Hermione shook her head, as she folded the paper, flipping to the back page of the paper. “Do reporters really have nothing better to do but trifle about in the personal lives of people? Honestly.” 

Harry snickered, shaking his head. “That’s the press for you.” 

She opened her mouth to reply, but the loud clunch of footsteps signaled Ron’s arrival. Her mouth snapped shut as he came over and kissed the top of her head. “There’s my girl,” he cooed, nuzzling his nose against her hair. “Come upstairs for a minute, ‘Mione.” He tugged on Hermione’s arm, attempting to get her up from the chair but she rolled her eyes, and pulled her arm away dropping the paper in the process. 

“Not right now, Ron. Can’t you see I am reading?” 

Ron placed his hand on his hip and cleared his throat, doing little to hide the irritation laced through his voice. “Reading about Malfoy?” 

Hermione’s eyes glanced toward the upturned paper, Draco’s smiling face beaming up at them, and toward Ron, eyes narrowing in confusion. “Among other things? Is something wrong?” 

Ron scratched at the side of his neck pulling on the collar of his shirt, “Can we talk? Upstairs, please?” 

Irritation spiked and she bristled, not in the mood for another row. “About what, Ronald?”

Ron pulled at her arm, long fingers curling around her forearm and tugging her to her feet. “Things that we shouldn’t bore Harry with, come on.” 

All she wanted was for him to stop touching her, was that so much to ask? She ripped her arm from his grasp again, wincing apologetically at Harry. It was always uncomfortable when they fought in front of Harry, though Ron never seemed bothered by it. She sighed and stalked out the room to follow Ron upstairs. 

Tension curled around them, threatening to suffocate her as they trudged through the hallway and up the stairs. She closed the bedroom door behind them, another precaution so Harry wouldn’t have to hear Ron yell about whatever he was angry about this time. 

He stared at her, pupils blown and his chest heaving as she snapped. “What do you have to say Ronald? Is it because I was reading the article about Draco?” She crossed her arms over her chest, her brows knit in irritation. 

His hands drew together, fingers rubbing over the ring he always wore as she smirked. “Gods you are hot when you are mad, are you wet right now?” 

Of all the things she expected him to say, that was  _ absolutely _ not it. She took a step back, floundering over her words as she tried to formulate thoughts through the fog of confusion clouding her mind. “I beg your pardon?” 

For each step she put between them, he took a step forward until her back was pressing against the frame of the door and his hands cupped her waist, slipping beneath the fabric of her shirt. He leaned down, hot breath ghosting over her ear. “Fuck, I love you like this. Do you have any idea what you do to me when you’re all worked up and angry? I want to fuck you so bad like this.”,

She attempted to shift to the side in a bid to escape his hold but he caught her by the wrist, pulling her hand towards the placket of his trousers. 

“Ron I—”

He pressed her hand against the fabric of his trousers, fingers pressing against the prominent hardness below. “See what you do to me, ‘Mione Just thinking about coming home and sinking my cock in you has made me hard for hours.”

She tried to protest, but he cut her off, pressing a finger against her lips and smiling down at her, cornflower blue eyes ringed with the haze of lust. “I’m desperate for you Hermione. Get on your knees and show me how much you love me. I know you love it, such a sexy little mouth you’ve got.” 

Before she knew it, she was in the same position as always, feeling awkward, not aroused and hopeless. 

* * *

“Hey, Harry? Can I discuss something with you?” Her voice quiet and meek, as she gathered the sides of her bathrobe over her body to shield herself. 

Harry pulled a chair out and gestured for her to sit, looking her over with his brows knit in concern. “Sure, ‘Mione. What’s it about?”

Harry and Ron worked alongside each other in the Auror program, so Harry should understand his workload, and be able to explain to her about Ron’s near-constant state of mind.“Well, it’s no secret that Ron has been a little...wound tight lately, I was just wondering if there were things going on in training that might cause him to act like this?” 

Hermione thought back to the one night when the four of them were watching a movie on the muggle television they had charmed to work at Grimmauld. The TV glitched and instead of trying to find a way to fix it, Ron cast an  _ Incendio _ at the TV and left cursing through the Floo. 

Another night, he was listening to a quidditch game on the wireless wherein the Cannons were playing the Magpies as she cooked dinner. When the Keeper for the Cannons allowed a goal to soar through one of the hoops, he turned and punched a hole in the wall of the kitchen before taking off through the Floo again. 

She didn’t know exactly where he went, but she had her suspicions. 

Harry rubbed at the back of his neck, “I don’t think so. He’s always fine at work, laughing and joking like the rest of the lads but then he leaves and by the time he arrives here, he acts different. I have noticed he has been angry at home a lot lately. Are things okay with you two?”

Hermione bit her lip as she shook her head.“ Not exactly… but we haven’t been fighting about anything substantial, little things here and there maybe, but it’s not that.”Hearing that he was acting like the Ron she had known at work and then becoming unexplainably aggressive with her at home made an unidentifiable pressure settle into her chest while tears threatened to prick at her eyes. 

But his anger simply didn’t just make sense. Ron was a sweet, kind and compassionate man, always caring for others and always doting on her. Sure, they fought periodically and she tried to keep those away from Harry as much as possible, but what happened behind closed doors didn’t ever seem to stem from that. When she tried to discuss his sudden need to hurt her during intercourse he claimed he had a hard day and needed to get frustrations out. She’d even done as Gin suggested and purchased a toy to help her learn her own body, but it never felt like that with Ron, always bordering more on pain than pleasure. 

Harry shrugged offering her a sympathetic smile. “Maybe Molly is just being difficult, you know how he can be around his Mum. She’s still grieving the loss of Fred and has been more prone to mood-swings here lately.” 

She crossed her arms about her chest, attempting to hold her emotions in tight. “Yeah, I guess. But wouldn’t Ginny have said something about it?” 

“I guess you’re right. How about I talk to him, try to see what’s going on. Maybe he just doesn’t realize what he is doing?” 

“Yeah, maybe. Thanks, Harry.”   
  


* * *

**_April 27, 2000_ **

Draco sat in his office sorting through stack after stack of paperwork on his desk for a particular case that he wanted to pass onto his associates before he left for vacation tomorrow afternoon. In his rush to get through enough files to keep the Prosecution department going for the week, his organizational system appeared to have gone completely out the window. Files were haphazardly stacked, overflowing onto every open space on his desk. and onto the floor beside it. It was a mess and, quite frankly, the overwhelming number of parchment stacks was starting to fray his nerves.

A soft knock sounded at his door, “Come in,” Draco called, not looking up to see who was entering, in his frantic search for the file he needed. He shifted a set of blue file folders filled with dried greenery to the small table to the left of his desk and dropped a heavy leather-bound spell book on top.

His very meek,  _ very _ pregnant assistant Susan crossed the threshold into his office, slightly out of breath from her walk, her hands resting over her rounded belly. “Mr Malfoy, I know you are  _ so _ busy, and I’m sorry to bother you with something so trivial” 

The sound of Susan’s voice pulled him out of his head and he rushed to her side, ushering her into a chair after rapidly clearing of another stack of parchment and two Dark Detectors that lay dormant in the relative safety of the DMLE. “Susan, as I have told you ten thousand times, I will  _ always _ have time for you, please take a seat.” Making sure she was settled, Draco nudged the chair closer to the desk so she could lean against it for support if needed. 

He stood back and watched his secretary wince and shift in the chair, letting out pursed breaths, rubbing circles over her protruding belly. “When do you go on maternity leave again? I don’t think it’s wise for you to be in the office so close to your due date. What does Finnegan say about this?” 

His brow knit with concern as she blew out a particularly long breath, “You know I have no clue how to deliver a baby right?” 

Susan let out a breathy laugh as Draco rounded the corner of his desk to sit back down. “One month and she is due. I go on leave in two weeks, so I have been working extra to make sure you have enough work to get you through the time I am gone before my temporary replacement starts.” 

Draco sat gently down in his office chair, glancing over his desk as his mind attempted to process what his assistant had said. “What? Susan, I will manage without you. Yes, I will struggle a bit ― okay a lot,” he admitted, running his fingers through his hair. The thought of his secretary going on maternity leave for a few months made him anxious. He and Susan worked well together and while he knew she would return, he didn’t fancy training someone new, no matter how temporary the situation was. “I will definitely miss you while you are gone, but I can handle it. This time in your life is very important, work be damned.” 

“I know, but I will still feel guilty ― ”

Draco held a hand up in the air to stop her, “Susan, please. Never feel guilty about having a family. Your job will be here when you are  _ ready _ , I insist.” 

Susan smiled sweetly and rubbed her stomach fondly. “Thank you, Draco.” 

He turned over another set of files on his desk, accidentally knocking over his pot of ink in the process. “So what did you say you needed?” He asked, pulling his wand from his robes and siphoning the ink away. 

“Oh yes, this piece of mail,” She handed over a cream-coloured envelope with a familiar hand-written script on the front. “Made it through the initial security checks but it didn’t appear to be business-related, and I was just wondering if you wanted the team to open it, or if you would like to handle it.” 

Draco’s eyebrows knit together as he surveyed the letter. He recognized the penmanship from somewhere that he couldn’t recall. He turned over the envelope to see a stamp from an Owlery outside of Ottery St. Catchpole. 

“Susan, where is Ottery St. Catchpole?”

Susan hummed, “It’s by Devon, I think.” 

Instantly a flashback burned into the forefront of his mind. Apparating into a marshland surrounded by reeds. Trudging through the murky water. Trying to be as silent as possible through the sounds of fire and screaming, the smell of burning wood and thick heavy smoke filling his nostrils and making his stomach roll with a wave of nausea. 

Draco’s mouth ran dry, and he swallowed loudly. “I think I will handle this Susan, thank you.” 

He carefully popped the seal on the envelope, pulling the contents from it with shaking hands, his touch featherlight as if the parchment inside might break apart in his hand. He was so lost in opening the letter that he hadn’t realized Susan had stood from her chair and was standing over his shoulder. 

_ Draco,  _

_ I hope this letter finds you well. I am in the process of moving and came across an old note from sixth year and realized that I haven’t spoken much to you since the war. I will be at the cafe down the street from the ministry with the blue awning around lunchtime if you are amenable to meeting with me. Since I am in-between places I don’t have a return address, but will be staying in the rooms above the Leaky.  _

_ I hope we cross paths soon.  _

_ Regards,  _

_ HJG _

The note fell from his hands to the floor, and Draco’s heart pounded against the walls of his chest, staccato breaths sticking his throat as he tried to breathe. She’d written to him. After all this time, after the countless letters he’d sent her. Memories flew through his mind like tiny birds and each significant moment between them flit from between the cracks of his carefully constructed shields. 

“Mr Malfoy? Is everything okay?” Susan placed a hand on his shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts. 

“Yes, yes everything is great.” Draco shook his head, clearing his mind. “Do I have any meetings planned tomorrow?” 

Susan waved her wand and a copy of Draco’s calendar appeared before her as wisps of light. “Just the weekly with Mr. Nott, but other than that no.” 

Draco glanced down at his pocket watch before flicking his wand toward his desk, the stacks of parchment neatly aligning and tucking themselves into their respective folders. “Great, I think I am going to leave for vacation a day early.” He stood, gathering his important belongings into his briefcase and trying his best not to look too frantic. He nearly tripped over a stack of files on the floor and swished his wand towards them, sending the stack to his desk. 

“All these files,” He gestured towards the stacks piling up on his desk, “Can you put them in alphabetical order, Susan? I will handle them when I return.” 

His briefcase snapped shut and he grasped the leather handle before slipping around the edge of his desk and breezing past Susan. 

“But sir!” she called, just before he walked out of the door. He turned and glanced at her, checking his watch again. “And your meeting, Mr. Malfoy? Shall I cancel with Mr. Nott?”

Draco stepped back into the office, shifting past his confused secretary to crouch down and retrieve the letter from Hermione from the floor. “I’m going to go talk to Theo now. I’ll handle it. Take the weekend off, Susan. I insist. Enjoy time with your husband before the baby comes.” He tucked the letter into the pocket of his robes and leaned over to give Susan an awkward side hug before nearly jogging out of his office.

He opened the door into Theo’s office with a little too much force and without knocking. 

“Theo ― ” he started, only to be stopped in his tracks by the sight of Pansy settled comfortably on her knees between Theo’s thighs, her head bobbing up and down on what could only be his, “—My eyes! Merlin, my eyes. What the actual fuck?” 

Draco quickly lifted his arm over his eyes though he was certain the image would be burned into his white matter for weeks to come. 

Theo had the audacity to laugh as he gently stroked Pansy’s hair, even if Draco couldn’t see them.“This wouldn’t have happened if you just knocked like a normal person.”

“It’s the middle of the  _ bloody _ day!” Draco countered, turning his back to the couple and lowering his arm until he was staring at the dark wood of the door. The sounds of Pansy’s enthusiastic performance caused a grimace to rise and he considered casting a charm so he wouldn’t have to hear it. 

“Draco, my wife and I are conducting a very important business meeting, how can I help you?” 

Draco cleared his throat, his voice rising in a bid to obscure the soft mewls he knew could only be Pansy’s. “Some things have come up that I need to take care of tomorrow, so I am leaving on vacation a day early. Susan is aware and knows to forward anything to you.” 

Blessedly, the sounds of Pansy’s evident arousal stopped for just a moment as Theo asked, “Is everything okay?” 

Draco nodded, fingers tightening around his briefcase and his hand curling around the doorknob. “I think so, I’ll let you know. I’m going to leave you two ... to it.” 

The knob twisted in Draco’s hand as Theo called, “Hey Draco, next time knock, yeah?” 

* * *

  
By the time he reached the cafe, his entire body was bubbling with nervous excitement. He fidgeted with his serviette, tapped his foot on the floor, and nearly spilled his drink. The letter Hermione had written hadn’t designated a time, so he arrived at half eleven, securing a table in the corner of the cafe, where he would have a good view of the street. 

After what felt like two hours of fidgeting, he spotted Hermione walking towards the cafe. 

When she entered the cafe, he was up and out of his seat and calling her name before he had time to compose himself. She turned and smiled and his throat went dry. 

She was beautiful—no longer pale and gaunt, barely fed from months on the run, but healthy and strong. The soft colouring in her face had reappeared and the weight she had lost during her year on the run had returned, softening her curves. Through her clothing he could just make out the gentle slope of her hips and it stirred long dormant feelings within him. 

The fantasies he’d entertained in the quiet of his room during the war flooded to the forefront of his mind—holding her, kissing her, being with her. 

His heart thrummed at the sight of her smile and his body warmed when she pushed herself into his arms and hugged him. The distinct feeling of rightness coursed through his veins and he basked in the feeling, lingering for a moment in her embrace. 

“It’s so good to see you, Draco.” She punctuated her statement with one last squeeze from their hug. 

He stepped back, fingers trailing over the softness of her arms before he reached for the chair at the table. “I’m really glad you decided to owl me, Hermione. I was afraid you never wanted to talk to me again.” He pulled out her chair, gesturing for her to sit, before pushing it closer to the small table and retaking his seat across from her. 

“That’s silly Draco, if you would have asked to meet, I would have done anything to make it.” The waitress joined them before he could respond and he quickly placed his order, choosing the first thing on the menu his eyes saw. Hermione chose more carefully, smiling kindly at the young muggle woman as she relayed her order. 

“Did you get any of my letters?” Draco’s brows knit in confusion as the waitress left the table with their orders.

The smile fell from Hermione’s face, “Did you send any?” 

Draco blew a breath through pursed lips and nodded. “A few ― yeah.” 

A brief look of concern crossed her features before she schooled them to a small smile, “Our owl has been known to be a bit off at times. I’m sure they just got mixed up somewhere.”

“Sure, that make’s sense.” Draco sipped his tea, studying her over his cup for signs that something was wrong. She seemed rattled and withdrawn, despite the smile on her face—one that was vastly different from the one with which she had greeted him. Her eyes showed a different truth, and an awkward silence settled between them, the palpable tension lingering in the air.

Draco cleared his throat in an attempt to lighten the mood. “So, how are things going for you, Hermione?” 

She nodded and smiled to the server who placed her warm tea and sandwich in front of her. He watched as she placed two sugars and a splash of cream, just like she did in sixth year. 

“Overall well, I am studying for my arithmancy mastery, which I was going to finish at the end of next year,” she paused to thank the server for bringing her food and began to fix her tea. “But I decided that I needed to take some time for myself. Thought I’d travel a bit and get a change of scenery.” 

Unease settled over him as Hermione stared at the table between them as she spoke, the tone of her voice resigned as she avoided making eye contact. Her shoulders were tight with an unexplained tension and she couldn’t have sounded less enthusiastic about traveling had she tried. 

“Is that why you are between places?” he pressed. “Where were you staying before?” 

She nodded quickly as she swallowed a bite of her sandwich, dabbing the serviette over her mouth before speaking. “Yes, actually. I was staying at Grimmauld with Harry, but I moved after he and Ginny got engaged last month, to give them the space they needed.” She turned her head and leaned down to retrieve a serviette that had fallen on the floor and a faint red mark appeared beneath the shoulder of her sweater. 

“So, you’ve been at the Leaky for a month? Is there a reason you can’t stay with Weasley? I’m surprised he’s okay with that arrangement.” 

Hermione remained silent and the realization that something was entirely  _ wr _ _ ong  _ washed over Draco. He reined in his irritation and resisted the urge to round the table and pull her into his arms.  “I apologize for railing you with questions, it’s really none of my business. We can talk about something else if you’d like.” 

Hermione didn’t answer but hid her face behind her hand, her chest rising and falling as she drew deep breaths, emotions hovering just at the surface. 

“Hermione? Is everything okay?” he asked, allowing himself to reach out and brush his fingers against the hand that lay on the table. 

She pulled her hand back as if she had been burned and covered her face in both hands. 

After a quick glance around, Draco discreetly drew his wand and cast a  _ Muffilato _ over the area around them, in order to give them privacy. “Hermione, I know it’s been a long time… butif something is going on, you can tell me.” 

When she sniffled, he strengthened the charms around them with a  _ Notice-Me-Not _ to keep from drawing the attention of the muggles and the waitress.

Bile bubbled at the back of his throat as he watched her fight whatever emotion she was terrified to release. When she sobbed against her hands, Draco pushed away from the table, and knelt on the floor next to her chair. His arm settled about her shoulders, thumb brushing over the worn fabric of her sweater as he leaned close to her ear, keeping his voice to a whisper. “If you can look me in the eye and tell me that you are safe and he is not harming you, I will drop it. But Hermione, if you can’t... I am taking you home with me. Can you do that?” 

He braced himself, waiting patiently as quiet sobs wracked her body until she shook her head. It was possibly the bravest thing he’d ever seen her do. His arm tightened around her and he drew a handkerchief from the pocket of his suit, passing it to Hermione before he stood. Pulling several notes from his wallet, Draco counted the total and placed the tidy stack in the middle of the table. He held his hand out to Hermione,“Come home with me, so we can talk about this in private.” 

She visibly recoiled, words muffled by the cover of her hands. “I can’t Draco, not… not the Manor.” 

The memory of her last visit to his home flashed before his eyes and he silently cursed himself for his thoughtlessness. “It looks different. That… that room doesn’t even exist any more. We’ve completely remodeled, but Hermione?” he brushed his fingers over her arm, gently pressing the tips against the soft curve of her elbow. “I’ll go anywhere. Just name it.” 

“You promise? It looks different?”

“Completely unrecognizable, honest.”

She sniffled, wiping her face with the handkerchief. He could see her resolve in the way her shoulders set and her back straightened. . “Okay, fine. I’ll… I’ll go with you.” 

She stood from the table and grabbed her bag, body trembling. Draco stepped forward and opened his arms, surprised when she stepped into them without hesitation. Her face tucked against his chest, tears rolling down her cheeks as his arms wrapped around her. 

Though he hated the feeling, Draco withdrew his wand and tapped it against the tops of their heads, casting a disillusionment charm, allowing them to fade into obscurity in the middle of the busy cafe before he canceled the two charms on their table. If Weasley was truly doing something nefarious enough to make the normally passionate yet stoic Griffyndor witch cry like this, it wouldn’t do to have the press see her leaving a cafe crying in his arms. He murmured against the top of her head, “You’re safe, Hermione. If I can get you out of this cafe, I can apparate us quickly so no one notices.” 

She nodded against his chest, pulling away and wiping her face on the sleeve of her sweater, though it did little to alter the evidence of her grief.

As soon as they crossed the threshold onto the sidewalk, Draco glanced quickly before apparating them straight into his room. He locked and silenced the door and drew the curtains, the fire roared to life in the darkness, casting the room in a warm glow. He hoped it might bring her comfort as he knew their conversation would not be an easy one, but in the space of a few short moments in her presence, he knew he would burn down the world if it meant she was safe.

She glanced around the room before gingerly lowering herself to the foot of his bed. He summoned the chair from his dressing table and placed it a few feet from where she sat, giving her the space she likely needed but staying close enough that he could offer physical comfort if she so desired. He removed his outer robes, transfigured to resemble a suit jacket and draped them across the back of the chair before sitting down.“I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but I still owe you for saving my sorry arse,” he laughed nervously, trying to break up the tension between them. “If there is anything you need, Hermione—anything at all—please, let me help you.” 

She drew a shaky breath, bringing her gaze up to his. Her brown eyes were bloodshot and swollen as if she had been crying for days, cheeks and nose painted red with bursts of colour from crying. How had he not noticed this before? 

“Thank you,” she murmured as she dabbed her eyes with the small white cloth he’d given her earlier. 

Minutes ticked by as he sat still in the silence, broken by her occasional sniffle and the sounds of their breathing. He watched her closely, each movement, each posure a tell of what she had endured. Thick, hot rage threatened to spill over as he waited, his mind conjuring any number of scenarios she might have suffered at the hands of Weasley. 

“Ron and I split up,” she said, her voice trembling. 

“I see,” Draco nodded slowly, “Is that why you’re so upset?” he pressed as he watched her, wondering what was lingering just below the surface that she hadn’t yet conveyed. 

“Partially. I should be angrier than I am.It’s stupid really.” She chuckled, betraying the tears falling from her eyes. 

Draco cleared his throat, “I guarantee it’s not stupid. If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand, but I’m almost certain it might make you feel better. .” He reached across the space between them and placed a tentative hand on her knee, lightly squeezing and, hoping to ground his own emotions as much as hers. 

Hermione swallowed and exhaled a tremulous breath.“Ronald and I were on different paths in life, and things sort of came to a head when I moved into the Burrow last month.” 

“How different?” 

“Very.” 

Draco sighed, attempting to compose his thoughts so it didn’t feel like he was conducting an interrogation. The last thing he wanted her to feel was that he wanted this information for his own gain, that he wasn’t simply trying to find out what had happened in his desperation to keep her from harm. “You said you weren’t safe, Hermione. What happened?” 

Her bottom lip wobbled as tears flowed from her eyes, forging new tracks down her cheeks. “He was...:” she paused, as if trying to find the proper word, “aggressive at the end, and said some things that ― ”

Draco moved quickly to the edge of his seat, fingers curling around her knee as he inched closer to her. “Aggressive, Hermione? How aggressive?” 

Her fingers nervously clutched at a loose lock of her curls. “He um… well we had sex a lot, even when I wasn’t in the mood, and then said some things and did some things. 

Draco ran his hand over his face, shifting his  _ Occlumency _ shields into place so he didn’t accidentally set the drapes on fire in a burst of accidental magic. Her confession hung thick between them as Draco took a moment to compose the flares of rage within. “Hermione, he… Weasley  _ raped _ you.”

“I don’t—well, we’d had sex before. It’s just... I didn’t want to as much as he did, and we would do it anyway.” The handkerchief twisted between her fingers and Draco could see in her face how she knew her argument was crumbling as if desperate to deny what had happened to her—it was unfathomable. 

“Hermione ― ”

“He ― He told me that... gods, I’m so embarrassed.” She sobbed, attempting to hide her face behind the small cloth in her hands. 

“Please,” he reached out to gently pull her hand away from her face, “Don’t be embarrassed, not with me. What did he tell you?” 

Her hands shook as she stood, pacing alongside the edge of the bed, Draco’s hand reluctantly falling back into his own lap. “A few months ago, I brought up how angry he’d been lately to Harry and Harry finally talked to him about it.” She toyed nervously with the handkerchief in her hands. “And that night while we were being intimate, he said that he didn’t like that I went to Harry with our problems, and then…” she swallowed, “asked if Harry’s um― _ you know _ , was bigger or better than his, if I liked it more.” 

Draco rested his face in his hands, his elbows on his knees. The heels of his feet tapped against the floor in poorly controlled irritation as he fought to control his emotions. 

“Then a few weeks after that, he came home pissed from the pub and I was already asleep, and he was taking my clothes off and just started before I even woke up. Then-then he got mad when I wasn’t getting―oh gods, do I have to say it.”

Draco rushed to stand, placing his hands on her upper arms, trying to calm her as much as he tried to calm himself. “I won’t judge you, but I also will never make you disclose anything you don’t want to.” 

She crossed her right arm over her body, her left elbow coming to rest on it, hiding her eyes with her hand and the handkerchief. “He got mad when I wasn’t getting,” she paused and lowered her voice, “ _ wet _ for him, and told me that his secretary was always wet for him and rubbing her,” she shook her head, letting out a small shaky breath, “herself all over his leg, and he couldn’t resist it anymore so he had sex with her.” Her voice cracked, hot tears streaming down her cheeks as she openly wept. 

He stepped away, fingers curling into the plus leather of the chair, lest he lose what little control he had to apparate away and find that sorry son of a bitch and put him into an early grave. He pushed his hand through his hair, nostrils flaring as Hermione continued, looking so small and terrified and yet so brave and beautiful for telling her story. 

“When I tried to kick him off, he only got more aroused saying he liked how I fought him. And when I cried, he said it… it reminded him of when Lavender was choking on his―Draco please, don’t make me say it.” 

Draco released his grip on the chair and was at her side in a moment. He pulled her tight against his chest, one arm circling her shoulders, the other rubbing small soothing circles over her back, his chin resting against the top of her head. “It’s okay, I’m right here.” 

She gripped his shirt as if she were drowning and he was a flotation device. He’d imagined this before, drawing her into his embrace, but never like this, never under such dire circumstances. 

Several minutes passed until Hermione gently pushed away from Draco, drawing a deep breath and pacing along the side of his bed once more. , “Harry and Ginny went on vacation this week, and two nights ago—the night I wrote you—he choked me and told me how much better Lavender and his assistant were. That he’d had them both at the same time, and I was too much of a prude to ever do that for him,” her breath caught and fresh tears poured over her cheeks. “And then told me he didn’t even clean himself before he-he… he entered me.” 

Her arms wrapped around her body, fingers grasping desperately at the fabric of her sweater. “When I tried to leave, he yanked me by the hair and said he would tie me to the bed if I tried to leave. I couldn’t even sleep that night, I was so terrified.” 

Draco crossed his arms against his chest and bit his cheek hard, trying to maintain control over his outward display of anger. He knew he was doing a poor job of it, especially when all he could imagine was finding Weasley and raining down every single dark curse his aunt had taught him during his sixth and seventh school years until his wand splintered from the force of his magic. 

Her feet carried her throughout the room, the words sometimes difficult to understand as she pushed forward, revealing each detail of her life for the past few months. “He got sent on a weekend detail assignment and I decided to leave, but when I checked my accounts, all my money was gone and his account was nearly empty. I told Hannah I would pay her back, but I don’t have anything, Draco. He took everything from me.”

Draco’s fingers rubbed small circles over his temples and he drew a deep breath, carefully mending the cracks that threatened to burst in his mind. He couldn’t explode—not here, not now—not when Hermione needed him most. “I’ll take care of Hannah, don’t worry. If you’re uncomfortable staying in a guest suite in the main house, there is a small house near the gardens. It has everything you might need. Hermione, let me take care of you. I won’t let you be homeless or without money, not after everything you’ve been through and certainly not after everything you’ve done for me.” 

He crossed the room to where she stood, leaned against the patio door, and pulled her into another embrace. Slowly, her arms twined around his torso and she rested her head against his chest, as if savoring his touch. 

“I can’t ask that of you Draco,” she said, her voice muffled as her face pressed against his chest, the curve of her nose dragging over the soft cotton.

He pulled away slightly, leaving his hands to linger on her arms as he lowered his face so it was level with hers, “You aren’t, and I won’t take no for an answer. I’ll buy you a home, anywhere you like, if you aren’t comfortable here, but I won’t allow him near you. You aren’t safe with Potter and Ginevra, and if he finds you at the Leaky, I’m certain he would do worse.” 

He felt her fingers curl into the back of his shirt as she laid her head down, her argument falling on deaf ears. “You don’t have to, Draco.” 

Draco shook his head, hands curling around her arms. “When he finds out you left, do you really think that things will be better? I know his type, and they won’t. You kept me safe during the war, let me keep you safe now.” 

He waited on bated breath until she finally acquiesced with a simple, “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this story accepts reviews/comments of people who simply enjoy their work, of course. But they are also happy to read and consider a thoughtful review of the work, even if it includes constructive criticism.


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